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The English Writings 

Abraham Cowley 

Born 1618 
Died 1667 







Cambridge : 

at the University Press 




C. F. CLAY, Manager. 



■.ilnia: f. A. BROCKHAUS. 

«<ti lor*: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS. 

DniUl ink eiUBlU: HACMILLAN AND CO., Ltu. 

[Aii Jiigkli rtttrvild.\ 


TPHE first volume of this edition of the Enj^lish 

writings of Cowley contained the whole of the 
poems that were collected for the folio which appeared 
the year after his death. The present volume contains 
the poems not included in the folio, its prose contents 
and Cowley's English plays. 

The earlier writings have been printed from a copy 
of the third edition of 1637, preserved in the Univer- 
sity Library, Cambridge ; but, as that copy is imperfect, 
transcripts of the missing portions have been made 
from two other copies and the deficiencies supplied 
thereby. The collation of these similarly dated copies 
has shown that they differ in a few passages. In the 
notes I have printed the variants noted in a collation 
of the first and second editions of 1633 ^^^ 1636. 
It may, perhaps, be permitted me to remind the reader 
that, of these earlier writings, Pyramus and Tbisbe was 
written at the age * of ten yeeres,' Constantius and Pbile- 
tus when *two yeeres older' and that the volume 
entitled Poeticall Blossomes was first published when 
Cowley was but fifteen. 

The Saiyre called The Puritan and the Papist seems 
entitled to a definite place among the works of Cowley 
and I have therefore printed it as part of the present 
text. By the kindness of the authorities of Bodley's 
Library, Oxford, it has been set up from photographs 
of the very rare first edition of 1643. 

The English play The Guardian^ and its later recen- 
sion Cutter of Coleman-Streety follow the first editions of 


1650 and 1663 respectively. They were apparently 
written in 1641 and 1658 respectively. Pepys (ed. 
Wheatley, ii, p. 155) records in 1661 that he went 
'after dinner to the Ofwra, where there was a new play 
("Cutter of Coleman Street"), made in the year 1658, 
with reflections much upon the late times, and it being 
the first time, the pay was doubled, and so to save 
money, my wife and I went up into the gallery, and 
there saw very well; and a very good play it is.' 

The Proposition For the Advancement Of Experimental 
Pbilosopby was printed in 1661. I am indebted to 
Mr W. Aldis Wright for the loan of a copy of that 
year for the purpose of reproduction. The essay was 
mcluded in the prose miscellanies of the folio of 1668 
referred to above, but the important Preface was omitted. 
The tract is given here, therefore, as it was published 
in 1661. 

The Discourse By way of Vision, Concerning the Govern- 
ment of Oliver Cromwell, published also in i66r, has been 
printed from the folio of 1668 and so have the Several 
Discourses by way of Essays, in Verse and Prose. 

At the end of these (see p. 462) 1 have added a 

ftoem which was printed in the ninth edition of Cow- 
ey's works (folio, 1700, Printed for Henry Herringman, 
etc.). Attention is drawn to this poem on the title 
page of the ninth edition by the words ' To which are 
added, some Verses by the AUTHOR \ Never before 
Printed.' And I have ventured to add, also as part of 
the text, the unfinished poem on the Civi> War first 
printed in 1679 (see Cowley's reference to this in the 
first volume of the present edition, p. 9). 

I have not included The Four Ages of England, or 
The Iron Age, 1648, as it was specifically disavowed by 
Cowley in the Prefece to the folio edition of his works 


referred to above (see the first volume of the present 
edition, p. 4) : I have not been able to find any reason 
why his statement should be doubted. Nor have 
I included A Satyre against SeparatistSy 1642, also 
attributed to Cowley. 

A few verses attributed to Cowley are printed in 
the appendix and notes : of these, the lines Upon the 
Happie Birth of the Duke may be regarded as certainly 
his, although he never included them in his works ; 
and probably the verses beginning * Come, Poetry^ and 
with you bring along' (p. 489) are his also : the edition 
in which they are to be found appeared during the 
lifetime of his literary executor (Bishop Thomas Sprat, 


As previously announced it is not intended to print 

Cowley's Latin poems as part of the present edition. 

Material for a Supplement of Notes, biographical, 

bibliographical and critical, is being collected and will 

be published, it is hoped, at no very distant date. 


University Press, 

12 September^ 1906. 




Poeticall Blostomes x 

Piniinus and Thisbc 29 

Sylva 45 

Lxivtfi Riddle 67 

Thi? Puritan and the Papist 149 

The Guardian 159 

A Prop€Niition for the Advancement of Experimental Philosophy . 243 ^ 

Cutter of Coleman-Strret 259 

A Discourse By way of Vision, Concerning the Government of 

Oliver Cromwrll 342 

Several Discourses by way of Essays, in Verse and Prose 377 

A Poem on the Civil War 465 

Ap|)endix 483 

Notes 487 

Index of titles 496 

Index of first lines 498 



I'be third Edition. 

Enlarged by the Author. 

—Jit surculus Arbor. 


Printed by £. P. for Henry Seilb, 

and are to bee sold at his shop at the signe 

of the Tygers-head in Fleet-street 

between the Bridge and 

the Cenduit 




Poeticall Blossomes i 

Piramus and Thisbc 29 

Sylva 45 

Loves Riddle 67 

The Puritan and the Papist 149 

The Guardian 159 

A Proposition for the Advancement of Experimental Philosophy . 243 

Cutter of Coleman-Strret 159 

A Discourse By way of Vision, Concerning the Government of 

Oliver Cromwell 341 

Several Discourses by way of Essays, in Verse and Prose 377 

A Poem on the Civil War 465 

Appendix 483 

Notes 487 

Index of titles 496 

Index of Brst lines 498 



The third Edition. 

Enlarged by the Author. 

—^t iurculus Arbor. 


Printed by E. P. for Henry Skilb, 

and are to bee sold at his shop at the signe 

of the Tygers-head in Fleet-street 

between the Bridge and 

the Conduit 








/ might wtU fiari, leatt thest my rude and unpelisht 
/intty thould offend your Honourable survay; hut that I hope your 
Nohlentiie will rather smile at tht faults committed by a Child, 
then (ensure them. Howsoever I disire your Lordships pardon, 
for presenting things so unworthy to your view, and to accept the 
good will of him, who in all dutit is bound to be 

most humble servant. 
Abraham Cowley. 

To the Reader. 

IT) EADER (I know not yet whether Gentle or no) Some, 
Xv I know, have beenc angrie(I dare not assume the honour 
of their envie) at my Poetical! boldnes, and blamed in mine, 
what commends other fruits, earliness: others, who are either 
of a weake laith, or strong malice, have thought me like a Pipe, 
which never sounds but when 'lis Mowed in, and read me, 
not as .Abraham Coxv//y, but Aulhirtm ananymum: to the first 
I answer, that it is an envious frost which nippesthe Blossomes, 
because they appeare quickly: to the latter, that he is the worst 
homicide who strives to murtiier anochers feme; to both, that 
it is a ridiculous foltic to condcmne or laugh at the starres, 
because the Moone and Surmc shine brighter. The small fire 
I have is rather blowne then extinguished by this wind. For 
the itch of Pocsie by being angered encreaseth, by rubbing, 
spreads farther; which appeares in that I have ventured upon 
this third Edition. What though it be negledted? It is not, 
I am sure, the first bookc, which hath lighted Tobacco, or 
been imploycd by Cooks, and Groacers. If in all mens 
judgements it suffer shipwracke, it shall something content 
mce, that it hath pleased My scife and the Bookseller. In it 
you shall finde one argument (and I hope I shall need no more) 
to confute unbelievers : which is, that as mine age, and 
consequently experience (which is yet but little) hath cncreased, 
so they have not left my Pocsie flagging behind them. I should 
not bee angrie to see any one burne my Pyramus, and Thiibe, 
nay 1 would doe it my sclfe, but that I hope a pardon may 
easily bee gotten for the errors of ten yeeres age. My Cennantia 
and Philtlus confesseth mec two yeeres older when I writ it. 
The rest were made since upon sevcrall occasions, and perhaps 
doe not belie the time of their birth. Such as they arc, they 
were created by mee, but their fate lies in your hands, it is 
onely you, can effect, that neither the Bookc-sellcr repent 
himseife of his charge in printing them, nor I of my labour 
in composing them. Farewell. 

A. C. 

To his deare Friend and Schoole-fcUow Abra- 
ham Cowley, on his flourishing and 
hopefull Blossomes. 

NAture we say itcaytt, btiautt mr Age 
Is went thtn wire tht Timet af old : The Stage 
And Histories tht firmer times dtdart: 
In tbtst Bur latter Dayes what drfeiis are 
Experience ttachtth. What then f shall wtt blame 
Nature yer this? Not w; let us diclame 
Rathir against our Selves : 'tis we Decay, 
Net She : Sbie is the same every way 
She was at first. Cowley, ihau prov'st this truth. 
Ceuld ever firmer Age hrag ef a Youth 
Se firward at these yeeres? Ceuld Naso write 
Thus yeung such wittie Poems f TuLLl's mtte 
Of Eloquence, at this age was net stent. 
Ner ytt was Cato's Judgement, at Tbirteene 
Se great as thine, Suppese it were se; yet 
He Cic'ro's Elequenct, TuLLV the fVit 
Of Ovid wanted: Ovid tee came farre 
In Judgement behind Cato. Thtrtferi art 
Nene ef all equall unte Thee, se pretty, 
Se Eloquent, judicious, and IVitiy, 
Let the world's spring time but produce and show 
Such Blossomes as i^ Writings are, and know. 
Then (not till then) shall my opinion be. 
That It is Nature faileth, and not wee. 

Bbm. Mastxu. 

To his Friend and Schoolc-fellow Abraham 
Cowley, on his Poetical! 

Anj, tobtn Youths of tender Age they tee 
ExpresuHg Cato, in their Gravity, 

M ..... ., 

Judgement, tmJ Wit, wHi e/ienlimes report. 

fbej tbtnie their thread tf Life exceeding soni. 

Bui my tfiinien ii ntt so of Thcc, 

For theu shalt Uvi, to all Posterity. 

These gifts will never let thee dyt^ for Death 

Can net bereave thee ef thy l^me, though breath. 

Let snarling Criticks spend their braines to find 

ji fault, though there be none; This is my mind; 

Let him that carptth with his vipers Tongue, 

Thinie with himselfe what he could doe as young. 
But if the Springing Blossorocs, thus rare bet, 
JVhat ripen'd Fruit shall we hereafter see ? 

Rob. Meade, 


To the Reader. 


Icall'd tht httikiiCd Mun Melpomene, 
And teld hir what sad Story I would wrtti: 
Shee W4pt at hiar'mg such a Tragedu, 
Thaigh want in mturnejull Dittits te delight. 
If thou disUkt that sorrowjuU lints ; Thin innv 
My Muii with teares, nat with Conceits did flow. 


And as shee my unabler quill did guide. 

Her briny ttares did on the paper fall. 

If then umquall numbers bee espied, 

Ob Reader I doe net that my error call, 

Bui ihinie her tearts dtfac^t it, and blame then 
My Muses griefe, and nat my mitsing Pen. 

Abraham Cowley. 





I Sing two constant Lovers various fate, 
The hopes, and feares which equally attend 
Their loves : Their rivals envie, Parents hate ; 
I sing their sorrowfull life, and tragicke . end. 
Assist me this sad story to rehearse 
You Gods, and be propitious to my verse. 


In Florence^ for her stately buildings fam'd, 

And lofty roofes that emulate the skie ; 

There dwelt a lovely Mayd Constantia nam'd 

RenownM, as mirrour of all Italy. 

Her lavish nature did at first adorne, 
With Pallas soule in Cytherea^s forme« 

And framing her attractive eyes so bright, 
Spent all her wit in studie, that they might 
Keepe th'earth from Chaosy and eternall night; 
But envious Death destroy'd their glorious light. 

Expect not beauty then, since shee did part; 

For in her Nature wasted all her Art. 


Her hayre was brighter then the beams which are 

A Crowne to PhcebuSy and her breath so sweet. 

It did transcend Arabian odours farre. 

Or th'smelling Flowers, wherewith the Spring doth greet 
Approaching Summer, teeth like falling snow 
For white, were placed in a double row. 



Her wit excell'd sill praise, ill admiration, 

And speech was so attraAive it might be 

A meanes to cause great Pallas indignation, 

And raise an envie from that Deity. 

The mayden Lillyes at her lovely sight 

Waxt pue with envie, and from thence grew white. 


She was in birth and parentage as high 

As in her fortune great, or beauty rare, 

And to her vcrtuous mindes nobility 

The gifts of Fate and Nature doubled were; 

That in her spotlesse Soule, and lovely Face 
Thou might'st have seene each Deity and grace. 


The scornefiill Boy Adanit viewing her 

Would f^enus still despise, yet her desire, 

Each who hut saw, was a Competitor 

And rivall, scorcht alike with Cupid's fire. 

The glorious beamcs of her (kyre Eyes did move, 
And light beholders on their way to Love. 

Amongst her many Sutors a young Knight 
Bove others wounded with the Majesty 
Of her faire presence, presseth most in sight} 
Yet seldome his desire can sacis£e 

With that blest obje^, or her rarenesse see ; 

For Btautiis guard, is watcbjull ytalouue, 


Oft-times that he might see his Dtarett-fairt, 
Vpon his stately Jennet he in th'way 
Rides by her house, who neigh's, as if he were 
Proud to be view'd by bright Ctnstanlia. 

But his poore Master though to see her move 
His joy, dares show no looke betraying love. 


Soonc as the mome peepM from her rosie bed 
And all Heavens smaller lights expulscd were: 
She by her friends and ncere acquaintance led 
Like other Maids oft walk't to take the ayrc ; 
Aurora blusht at such a sight unknowne, 
To see those cheekes were redder then her c 

Th'obsequious Lover follows still her traine 

And where they goe, that way his journey feines. 

Should they turne backe, he would turne backe againe ; 

For where his Love, his businesse there renuines. 
Nor is it strange hcc should be loath to part 
From her, since shec had stolne away his heart. 

PhiUtuj hce was call'd sprung from a r^cc 

Of Noble ancestors ; But greedy Time 

And envious Fate had labour'd to deface 

The glory which in his great Stocke did shine ; 
His sute but small, so Fortune did decree, 
But Lavi being blind, hee that could never see, 

Yet he by chance had hit his heart aright, 
And on Censtantia's eye his Arrow whet, 
Had blownc the Fire, that would destroy him quite, 
Unlesse his flames might like in her beget : 
But yet he feares, because he blinded is, 
Thoi^h he have shot him right, her heart hee'l misse, 


Unto Laves Altar therefore hee repayers, 

And offers there a pleasing Sacrifice ; 

Intreating CupiJ with inducing Prayere, 

To looke upon, and case his Miseries: 

Where having wept, recovering breath againe. 
Thus to immortall Lave he did complaine : 




Oh Cupid I ihtu whsu uncsntralUd tway. 

Hath Bfi-timts ruPd tht Olympian Thunderer^ 

JVhom all CteUstial! Deities obey, 

Wham Men and Gods both reverence and fearei 
Oh force ConsUntias heart to yeeld to Love, 
Of all thy fVorkes the Master piece ^ twill (irave. 

And let me not Afiaion vainely spend. 
But kindle flames in her, like those in me; 
Tet if that guift my Fortune doth transcend. 
Grant that her charming Beauty I may see : 

And view those Eyes which with their ravishing light. 

Doe onely give contentment to my sight. 

T'hose who contemne thy sacred Deity, 

And mecke thy power, let them thine anger know, 

Ifaulilesse am, nor catCt an honour be 

"to wound your slave alone, and spare your Foe. 

Here teares and sights spcake his imperfect mone, 
In language farrc more dolorous than his ownc. 

Home he retyr'd, his Soulc he brought not home, 
Just like a Snip whil'st every mounting wave 
Tost by enraged Boreas up and downe, 
Threatens the Mariner with a gaping grave; 

Such did his case, such did his state appeare, 
Alike distracted betweene hope and feare; 

Thinking her love hec never shall obtainc, 
One morne he goes to th'Woods, and doth complaine 
Of his unhappy Fate, but all in vaine, 
And thus fond Eccbo, answers him againc. 
So that it seemes Aurora wept to heare, 
For th'verdant grasse was dew'd with many a tcare. 


OH1 what tatb eaut'd my killing misertitf 
Eyn, Eccho laid. What hath dttattCd my tatt ? 
Eaity straight the rtionable Nymph replytSy 
That ttathing can my troubled minde afptase : 

Peace, Eccho answers. What, is any nigh f 
Quoth he : at which, she quickly titters, I, 
I^t Eccho answers? tell mee then thy will: 
I will, shee said. What shall I get (queth he) 
Bi loving still f to which she answers, ill. 
ihf shell I void ef wisht for pleasure dye f 

It shall not I who teyle in ceastlesse patne. 
Some pleasure know? no, she replyei againe. 

False and inconstant Nymph, thou lyest {quoth he) 
thou lyest, shee said. And I deserv'd her hate. 
If I should thee beleeve; beleeve, {satth shee) 
For why thy idle words are of no weight. 

Weigh it {shee replyes) I therefore will depart. ' 
To which, resounding Eccho answers ; part. 
Then from the Woods with wounded heart he goes, 
Filling with legions of fresh thoughts his minde. 
He quarrels with himselfc bccnuse his woes 
Spring from himselfe, yet can no medicine ftnde : 

Hee weepes to quench the fires that burn in him, 
But tearcs doe Eall to th'earth, flames arc within. 
No morning banisht darkenesse, nor blacke night 
By her alternate course expuls'd the day, 
Which in Philetus by a constant rite 
At Cupids Altars did not weepe and pray; 

And ret had reaped nought for all his paine 
But Care and Sorrow, that was all his gaine. 


But now at last the pitying God, o'rccome 

By's constant votes and tearcs, fixt in her heart 

A golden shaft, and she is now become 

A suppliant to Love that with like Dart 

Hee'd wound Philetut, and doth now implore 
With tearcs, ayde from that power she scorn'd before. 

Little she thinkes she kept Philitui heart 

In her schortcht brdst, because her owne she gave 

To him. Since either sutlers equal) smart, 

And alike measure in their torments have; 

His Soule, his griefe, his fires, now hers are growne: 
Her heart, her minde, her love is his alone. 

Whilst thoughts 'gainst thoughts rise up in mutinie, 
Shee took a Lute (being farre from any eares) 
And tun'd this Song, posing that harmony 
Which Poets wit attributes to the Sphears: 

Whose ravishing Notes, if when her Love was slaine 
She had sungj from Styx t'had cald him backe againe. 

The Song. 

To tuhem ihall I my Sorrou/es sfmv ? 
Nat to Love, far hi it blindt : 
And my Philetus dalh mt knnu 

The inward larrow of my minde. 
And all the imcelea walk which an 
Now round about me, cannot heare. 
For if thty could, tbty sure would wttpe. 

And with my griefci relent : 
Vnltsse their willing tearei they ketpe. 

Till I from th'earth am sent. 
Then I beleeve thty'l all deplore 
My fate, linee I thim taught before. 


/ willingly would wetpe my tUre, 

If the'jltud would land thy Ln/e, 
My dtart Philetus on tbi ihoart 

Of my heart i but thouldst thou prove 
Aftard of fames, knew the fires are 
But btiufires for thy comming there. 

Then teares in envic of her speech did flow 
From her fain eyes, as if it seemM that there 
Her burning flame had melted hills of snow, 
And so dissolVd them into many a tcare ; 
Which Niha like, did quickly over-flow, 
And caused soone new serpent griefes to grow. 

Heere stay my Muse, for if I should recite, 
Her mournefull Language, I should make you weepc 
Like her a floud, and so not sec to write, 
Such lines as I and th'zge requires to keepe 

Mee from sterne death, or with victorious rime, 
Revenge their Masters death, and conquer time. 

By this time, chance and his owne industry 
Had hclpt Philetus forward, that he grew 
Acquainted with her Brother, so that he, 
Might by this meanes, his bright Constantia view: 
And as time serv'd shew her his miscrie : 
And this was the iitst A&. in*s Tragedie, 

Thus to himselfc sooth'd by his flattering state, 
He said ; How shall I ihanke thee for this game, 
O Cupid, or reward my helping Fate, 
fVlnch sweetens all my sorrtwes, all my paine; 
What Husiand-man would any sweet refuse, 
Tff reape at last such fruit, bis labours usef 



But waighing straight his doubtfiill state aright, 
Seeing his griefes linkt like an endlesse chaine 
To following woes, he could dcspaire delight, 
Quench his hot flames, and empty love disdaine. 
But Cupid when his heart was set on fire, 
Had burnt his wings, and could not then retyre. 

The wounded youth, and kinde Philocratis 
(So was her Brother call'd) grew soonc so dcare, 
So true, and constant, in their Amities, 
And in that league so strii5tly joyned were; 

That Death it selfe could not their friendship sever. 
But as they liv'd in love, they dyde together. 

If one be melancholy, th'other's sad ; 
If one be sicke, the other he is ill, 
And if Phi/ttut any sorrow had, 
Piiluraia was partner in it still : 

Pylades soulc and mad OreiUi was 

In these, if wee beleeve Pythagtras. 

Oft in the Woods Philetui walkes, and there 
Ejcclaimes against his fate, fate too unkind. 
With speaking tearcs his griefes he doth declare. 
And with sad sighes teacheth the angrie Jf^indy 
To sigh, and thou^ it nere so cruell were, 
It roar'd to heare Phiietus tell his care. 

The Christall Brookes which gently runne bctweene 
The shadowing Trees, and as they through them passe 
Water the Earth, and kcepc the Medowcs greene, 
Giving a colour to the verdant Grasac: 
Hearing Philttus tell his wofiill state. 
In shew of griefe runne murmuring at his Fate. 



PUUaui answcrcs him againe and shcwcs 

In her best language, her sad Historic, 

And in a mournfiill swcetnesse tels her woes. 

Denying to be pos'd in miserie : 

CmttanUa he, she Term, Tereut crycs, 

With him both griefc, and gricfcs expression vies. 

Pbiloeratn must needes his sadnesse Icnow, 
Willing in ills, aswcll as joycs to share, 
Nor will on them the name of friends bestow. 
Who in spon, not in sorrowes partners are. 

Who leaves to guide the Ship when stormes arise, 
Is guilty both of sinne, and cowardise. 


But when his noble Friend perceiv'd that he 
Yeelded to tyrant Passion more and more, 
Desirous to partake his malady, 
He watches him in hope to cure his sore 

By counsel!, and recall the poysonous Dart, 

When it alas was fixed in his heart. 

When in the Woods, places best fit for care, 
Hee to himselfc did his past griefes recite. 
The 'obsequious friend straight followes him, and there 
Doth hide himselfc from sad PhiUtus sight. 

Who thus exclaimes; for a swolne heart would breaker 
If it for vent of sorrow might not speake. 


OhJ I am lest, tut in this Desart fVoed, 

But in Uves patbUsst Labyrinth, then I 

My health, each joy and pleasure counted goad 

Have lost, and which it mare, my liberty. 
And now am forc't to let him sacrifice 
My heart, for rash belaving of my eyes. 


Long have I stayed, but yet have ne riliife^ 
Long have I kvdy yet have nt favour thwne, 
Because she kncwes not of my ktiltng griefiy 
And I have feard, to make my sorrowes knotvne. 
For why alas, if shei should once but dart 
At me disdoine, 'twould kill my suhjiSf heart. 


But how should shee, ere I Impart my Love, 

Reward my ardent ^ame with Hie desire? 

But when I speakt, if shee should angry prove. 

Laugh at my flowing teares, aiui scorne my fre? 
ffhy, he who hath all sorrowes borne before, 
Needeth net feari to be opprest with more. 

Philocrates no longer can forbeare, 
But running to his lov'd Friend ; Oh (said he) 
My deare Philetus be thy selfi, and sweare 
7e rule that Passion which now masters Thety 
And all thy faculties i but if't may not be. 
Give to thy Love but eyes that it may see, 

Amazement strikes him dumbe, what shall he doe? 
Should he revcale his Love, he fearcs twould prove, 
A hindrance j which should he deny to show, 
It might perhaps his deare friends anger move : 
These doubts Itlce Scyl/a and Charihdis stand. 
Whilst Cupid a blind Pilot doth command. 


At last resolv'd ; how shall I seeke, said hee, 

To excuse my selfe, dearest Philocrates { 

That I from thee have hid this secrecie i 

Yet censure not, give me first leave to case 

My case with words, my griefe you should have known 
Ere this, if that my heart had beene my owne. 



/ am all Lovt^ my heart u/ai burnt with fire 
From two bright Suimet v/hicb dot alt light diiclose } 
Fint iindUng in my breast the flame desire^ 
But Hie the rare Arabian Arrf, there rose 

From my hearts ashes never quenthrd Love^ 
ff^hicb MW this torment in my soule doth move. 


Oh} Jet not then my Pauton cause your hate. 

Nor let my choise offend youy or detayne 

Your a/tdent Friendship f 'tis alas too late 

7* call an firme affelXion backe againt : 

No Phpicke caH recure my vjtakrCd state^ 
The vnund is growne too great, too desperate. 


But Counsell sayd his Friend, a remedy 
Which never ^yles the Patient, may at least 
If not quite heale your mindes infirmity, 
Asswage your torment, and procure some rest. 
But there is no Physilian can apply 
A medicine^ ere he know tht Malady. 


Then hearc me, said Philetus ; but why f Stay, 

I will not toyle thee with my history, 

For to remember Sorrowes past away. 

Is to renew an old Calamity. 

Hee who aequainteth others with his mone, 
Addes to his friends grtefi, but not cures his owne, 

But said Philecrates, 'tis best in woe, 
To have a &ithfull partner of their care ; 
That burthen may be undergone by two, 
Which is perhaps too great for one to beare. 

I should mistrust your love to hide from me 
Your thoughts, and taxe you of Inconstancy. 


What shall he doe? or with what language frame 
Excuse? He must resolve not to deny, 
But open his close thoughts, and inward flatne, 
With that, as prologue to his Tragedy. 

Hee sigh'd, as if they'd code his torments ire, 
When they alas, did blow the raging fire. 

When yeeres first styl'd me Twenty, I began 
To sport with catching snares that love had set, 
Like birds that flutter 'bout the gyn, till tane, 
Or the poorc Fly caught in Ar^hnts net : 

Even so I sported with her Beauties light. 
Till I at last grew blind with too much sight. 

First It came stealing on me, whil'st I thought, 

Twas easie to expulse it, but as lire, 

Though but a sparke, soone into flames is brought, 

So mine grew great, and quickly mounted higher ; 

Which so have scorcht my love-stnicke soule, that I 
Still live in torment, though each minute dye. 


Who is it, said Philocrates, can move 

With charming eyes such deep affection ? 

I may perhaps assist you in your love, 

Two can cffeft more than your selfe alone. 
My counsell this thy error may reclaime, 
Or my salt teares quench thy annoying flame. 

Nay said Philetui, oft my eyes doe flow 
Like Ni/us, when it scornes th 'opposed shore: 
Yet all the watery plenty I bestow. 
Is to my flame an oyle, which feedes it more. 
So fame reports of the Dodanean spring. 
That lights a torch the which is put therein. 



But being you desire to know her, she 
Is call'd (with that his eves let fall a shower 
As if they hdnc would drowne the memory 
Of his life keepers name,) Constantsa ; more 

Griefe would not let him utter; Ttares the best 
Expressers of true sorrow^ spoke the rest. 

To which his noble friend did thus reply: 

And was this all ? What ere your griefe would ease 

Though a fiure greater taske, beleev't for thee 

It should be soone done by Philocrates ; 

Thinke all you M^ish performed, but see, the day 
Tyr'd with its heate is hasting now away. 


Home from the silent Woods, night bids them goe. 

But sad PhiUtus can no comfort finde, 

What in the day he feares of future woe. 

At night in dreames, like truth, affrights his mind. 

Why do*st thou vex him. Love ? Hadst eyes (I say) 
Thou wouldst thy selfe have lov*d Constantia, 


Philocrates pittying his dolefuU mone. 
And wounded with the Sorrowes of his friend. 
Brings him to fayre Constantia ; where alone 
Hee might impart his love, and eyther end 

His fruitlesse hopes, cropt by her coy disdaine. 
Or by her liking^ his wish*t Joyes attaine, 


Fairest (quoth he) whom the bright Heavens doe cover^ 
Doe not these teareSj these speaking teareSy despise^ 
And dolorous sighesy of a submissive Lover ^ 
Thus strucke to tV earth by your all dazeling Eyes. 
And doe not you contemne that ardent flame^ 
Which from your selfe^ Your owne faire Beauty came. 

B 2 19 


Trust me, I long have hid my hve, but now 
Jm ftrc't to thow't, such is my inoard smart. 
And you alone {stutti fairt) the mtants de knnu 
To heah the iveund of my consuming heart. 

Then since it onely in your power doth lie 
To kill, or save. Oh helfiel or else I dye. 


His gently cnicll Love, did thus reply ; 

I fir your fiaine am grieved, and would dat 

iVithout impeacbme[n]t to my Chastity 

And honour, any thing might pleasure you. 
But if beyond those limits you demand, 
I must not answer, {Sir) nor understand, 

Beleeve me vertuous maiden, my desire 
Is chast and pious, as thy Virgin thought, 
No flash of lust, 'tis no dishonest fire 
Which goes as soone as it was quickly brought : 

But as thy beauty pure, which let not bee 

Eclipsed by disdamc, and cruelty. 

Oh ! how shall I reply (quoth shce) thou'aat won 
My soule, and therefore take thy viflory: 
Thy eyes and spcaches have my heart o'recome, 
And if I should deny thee love, then I 

Should bee a Tyrant to my selfc; that fire 
Which is kept close, burnes with the greatest ire. 


Yet doe not count my yeelding, lightnesse in mee, 
Impute it rather to my ardent love. 
Thy pleasing carriage long agoe did win me, 
And pleading beauty did my liking move. 

Thy eyes which draw like loadstones with their might 
The hardest hearts, won mine to leave me quite. 



Oh ! I am rapt above the reach, said hee, 

Of thought, my soule already feeles the blisse 

Of heaven, when (sweet) my thoughts once tax but thee 

With any crime, may I lose all happinesse 

Is wisht for : both your favour here, and dead. 
May the just Gods [pour] vengeance on my bead. 


Whilst he was speaking this (behold their finte) 

Constantia^s father entred in the roome. 

When glad Philetus ignorant of his state. 

Kisses her cheekes, more red then setting Sun, 

Or else, the morne, blushing through clouds of water, 
To see ascending Sol congratulate her. 


Just as the guilty prisoner fearefiiU stands 
Reading his fatall Theta in the browes 
Of him, who both his life and death commands. 
Ere from his mouth he the sad sentence knowes. 
Such was his state to see her father come. 
Nor wisht for, nor expe£ted to the roome. 


The inrag'd old man bids him no more to dare 
Such bold intrudence in that house, nor be 
At any time with his lov'd daughter there 
Till he had given him such authority. 

But to depart, since she her love did shew him 
Was living death, with lingring torments to him. 


This being knowne to kind PhilocrateSy 
He cheares his friend, bidding him banish feare. 
And by some letter his griev d minde appease. 
And shew her that which to her friendly eare, 

Tyme gave no leave to tell, and thus his quill 
Declares to her, the absent lovers will. 




I Trust {dtart Sauli) my ahunct cattnot mavt 
Tou te fergtt^ ar doubt my ardent Icvt; 
Far wire there any meanes to see you, I 
Would runne through Death, and all the miserit 
Fate could infliil, that so the world might say. 
In Life and Death I iov'd Constantia. 
Then let not (dearest Szueet) our absence sever 
Our loves, let them join'd closely still together 
Give warmth to one another, till there rise 
From all our labours, and our industries 
The long expeSled fruits ; have patience {Switt) 
There's no man whom the Summer pleasures greet 
Before he fast the M^inler, none can say. 
Ere night was gone, he saw the rising Day. 

So when we once have wasted Sorrcwei night. 
The sunne of Comfort then shall give us light. 

^ Philitus. 

This when Constantia read, shee thought her state 
Most happy by Philetus Constancie, 
And perfeCT Love : she thankes her flattering Fate, 
Kisses the paper, till with kissing she 

The welcome Charafters doth dull and sUyne, 
Then thus with inke and teares writes backe ogaine. 


YOur absence (Sir) though it be long, yet I 
Neither forget, nor doubt your Constancie. 
Nor need you feare, that I should yeeld unto 
Another, what to your true Love is due. 
My heart it yours, it is not in my claime. 
Nor have I power to giv't away againe. 
Thereat nought but death can part our soules, no time 
Or angry Friends, shall mate my Love decline : 
But far the harvest of our hopes I'le stay, 
t/[«]/«K Death cut it, ere't be ripe, away. 




Oh ! how this Letter did exalt his pride ! 
More proud was he of this, then Phaeton ; 
When Phoebus flaming Chariot he did guide, 
Before he knew the danger was to come. 

Or else then Jasony when from Colchos hee 

Returned, with the Fleeces vidlorjr. 

But ere the Autumne which faire Ceres crown'd, 
Had paid the sweating Plow-mans greediest prayer; 
And by the Fall disrobM the gawdy ground 
Of all her Summer ornaments, they were 

By kind Philocrates together brought. 

Where they this means t'enjoy their freedome wrought, 


Sweet Mistresse, said PhiletuSy since the time 
Propitious to our votes, now gives us leave 
To enjoy our loves, let us not deare resigne 
His long*d for favour, nor our selves bereave 

Of what we wisht for, opportunitie ; 

That may too soon the wings of Love out-flie. 


For when your Father, as his custome is, 
For pleasure, doth pursue the timerous Hare ; 
If you*l resort but thither. Fie not misse 
To be in those Woods ready for you, where 
We may depart in safety, and no more 
With Dreames of pleasure onely, heale our sore. 


This both the Lovers soon agreed upon. 
But ere they parted, he desires that she 
Would blesse his greedy hearing, with a Song 
From her harmonious voyce, she doth agree 
To his request, and doth this Ditty sing. 
Whose ravishing Notes new fires to s old doe bring. 




The Song. 

Time flyt with greater speed away. 
Aide feathers to thy wings. 
Till thy hast in flying brings 
That wisht fir, and expeited Day. 

Camfirts sunne, we then shall see. 
Though at first it darkned bee, 
IVith dangers, yet those Ckudi being gone. 
Our Day will put his lustre on, 


Then though Deaths sad night doe come. 
And we in silence sleepe, 
'Lasting Day agen will greet 

Our ravisht Soules, and then there's none 

Can part us mare, no Death, nor Friends, 
Being dead, their power o're us ends. 
Thus there's nothing can dissever. 
Hearts which Love hath Joyn'd together. 


Feare of being seen, Philetui homewsird drove, 

But ere they part ^e willingly doth give 

As faithfull pledges of her constant love 

Many a Icisse, and then each other leave 

In griefc, though rapt with joy that they have found 
A way to heale the torment of their wound. 



But ere the Sun through many dayes had run, 
Constantia*s charming beauty had oVecome 
Guiscardo^s heart, and's scorn'd a£Fe£tion won, 
Her eyes, they conquered all they shone upon, 
Shot through his eyes such hot desire, 
As nothing but her love could quench the fire. 


In roofes which Gold and Parian stone adorn. 
Proud as their Landlords minde, he did abound. 
In fields so fertile for their yeerly corn©, 
As might contend with scorcht Ca/abria*s ground ; 
But in his soule where should be the best store 
Of surest riches, he was base and poore. 


Him was Comtantia urgM continually 
By her friends to love, sometimes they did intreat 
With gentle speeches, and mild courtesie. 
Which when they see despis'd by her, they threat. 
But love too deep was seated in her heart. 
To be worn out with thought of any smart. 


Her father shortly went unto the Wood 
To hunt, his friend Guiscardo being there. 
With others who by friendship and by blood 
Unto Constantia^s aged Father were 

AUyed neere, there likewise were with these. 
His beautious Daughter, and Philocrates, 


Being entred in the pathlesse woods, whilst they 
Pursue their game, Philetus which was late 
Hid in a thicket, carries straight away 
His Love, and hastens his owne hastie fate. 

Which came too soone upon him, and his Sunne 

Eclipsed was, before it fully shone. 




For when Cmitantia'i missed, in a maze. 

Each takes a several! course, and by curst fate 

Guiuarda runs, with a love-carried pace 

Towards them, who httle knew their sorrowfull state : 
So hee like bold learut soaring hye 
To Honours, fell to th'depth of misery. 

For when Guiicarde sees his Rivall there, 
Swelling with envious rage, hee comes behind 
Pbi/etut, who such fortune did not feare, 
And with his flaming sword a way doth find 

To his heart, who ere that death possest him quite, 
In these few words gaspt out his flying sprite. 


O ttt Constantia, mj ihirt race is runne. 
See henj my bload the thirsty ground dath dye. 
But live thou happier then thy love hath dint^ 
And when Vm dead, thinke lanutime upon me. 

More my short time permits me not to tell, 
For now death ceizeth me, ah my dean farewell, 


As soon as he had spoke these words, life fled 
From's wounded body, whil'st Constantia shee 
Kisses his cheekes which lose their lively red, 
And become pale, and wan, and now each eye 

Which was so bright, is like, when life was done 

A fallen slarre, or an eeSfsed Sunne. 


Thither Pbilocrates by's fate being drove 

To accompany Pb'tUtut Tragedy, 

Seeing his friend was dead, and's sorrowfull love 

Sate weeping o'rc his bleeding body, I 

Will now revenge thy death (best friend) said he, 
Or in thy murtner beare thee company. 



I am by Jwi sent to revenge this fate, 
Nay, stay Gmscardo^ thinke not heaven in jest, 
'Tis vaine to hope flight can secure thy state. 
Then thrusting's sword into the Villaines brest : 
Here, said Phikcrates^ thy life I send 
A sacrifice, t'appease my slaughter'd Ariend. 


But he falls: here take a reward said he 

For this thy victory, with that he flung 

His killing Rapier at his enemy, 

Which hit his head, and in his brain-pan hung. 
With that he falls, but lifting up his eyes. 
Farewell Constantiay that word said, he dyes. 


What shall she doe ? she to her brother runnes 
And's cold, and livelesse body doth imbrace. 
She calls to him, he cannot heare her moanes: 
And with her kisses warmes his clammy face. 
My dean Philocrates, shee weeping cryeSy 
Speake to thy Sister : but no voyce replyes. 


Then running to her Love, with many a teare. 
Thus her minds fervent passion she express*t, 
O stay (blest Soule) stay but a little here. 
And we will both hast to a lasting rest. 

Then to EUsiums Mansions both together 
Wee*l journey, and be marryed there for ever. 


But when she saw they both were dead, quoth she. 

Oh my PhiletuSy for thy sake will I 

Make up a full and perfcdl Tragedy, 

Since *twas for me (Deare Love) that thou didst dye; 
lie follow thee, and not thy losse deplore. 
These eyes that saw thee kill'd, shall see no more. 




It shall not sure be said that thou didst dye, 
And thjr Carutantia live since thou wast sfaine: 
No, no, dears Soule, I will not stay from thee. 
But constant be in a£t, as well as Name. 

Then piercing her sad brest, / cemt, she cryes, 
And Death for ever chCd her weeping tyei. 

Her Soule being fled to its eternall rest, 
Her Father comes, who seeing this, he falls 
To th'carth, with griefe too great to be cxprcst : 
Whose dolefuU words my tyred Muse me calls 

T' o'rMiasse, which I most gladly doe, for feare 
That I should toyle too much, the Readers eare. 






The third Edition. 

Enlarged by the Author. 

-Jit surculus Arbor, 


Printed by E. P. for Henry Sbilb, 

and are to bee sold at his shop at the signe of 

[the] Tygers-head in Fleet-street between 

the Bridge and the Conduit. 


To the Right Worshipful!, 

my very loving Master, Master 

Lambert OsbotstoHy chiefe School- 
master of JVestminster- 


MT childish Muse is in her Springy and yet 
Can onely shew some budding of her Wit. 
One frowne upon her JVorke {learned Sir) from yoUy 
Like some unkinder storme shot from your hroWy 
Would turn her Spring to withering Autumn's time^ 
And make her Blossomes perishy ere their Prime, 
But if you smile J if in your gracious Eye 
Shee an auspicious Alpha can descrie: 

How soone will they grow Fruit F How will they flourish ^ 
That had such beames their infancie to nourish? 
Which being sprung to ripen esscy expert then 
The besty and first fruits of her gratefull Pen, 

Your most dutifull Scholler, 

Abra. Cowlby. 





Pyramus and Thisbe. 


WHcre Baby Ions high Walls erefted were 
By mighty Ninus wife ; two houses joyn'd. 
One Thisbe liv'd in, Pyramus the faire 
In th'other : Earth nere boasted such a paire. 
The very sencelesse walls themselves combin'd, 
And grew in one; just like their Masters mind. 


Thisbe all other women did excell, 
The Queene of Love^ lesse lovely was than she : 
And Pyramus more sweet than tongue can tell, 
Nature grew proud in framing them so well. 
But Fenus envying they so faire should be, 
Bids her sonne Cupid shew his crueltie. 


The all-subduing God his Bow doth bend, 
And doth prepare his most remorselesse Dart, 
Which he imseene unto their hearts did send. 
And so was Love the cause of Beauties end. 

But could he see, he had not wrought their smart : 
For pittie sure would have o'recome his heart. 



Like as a Bird which in a Net is tane, 
By strugling more entangles in the ginne ; 
So they who in Loves Labyrinth remaine, 
With striving never can a frecdome gainc. 

The way to enter's broad ; but being in, 

No art, no labour, can an ixit win. 


These Lovers, though their Parents did reprove 
Their fires, and watch'd their deeds with jcalousie, 
Though in these stormes no comfort could remove 
The various doubts, and feares that coole hot love : 
Though he nor hers, nor she his ^e could see, 
Yet this did not abolish Loves Decree. 

For age had crack'd the wall which did them part, 
This the unanimate couple soone did spie, 
And here their inward sorrowes did impart. 
Unlading the sad burthen of their heart. 

Though Love be blinde, this shewes he can descry 

A way to lessen his owne misery. 

Oft to the friendly Grannie they resort. 
And feedc themselves with the ccelestiall ayre 
Of odoriferous breath ; no other sport 
They could enjoy, yet thinke the time but short: 
And wish that it againe renewed were, 
To sucke each others breath lot ever there. 

Sometimes they did exclaime against their fate. 

And sometimes they accus'd imperiall Jove; 

Sometimes repent their flames : but all too late ; 

The Arrow could not be recall'd : their state 
Ordained was by jfupiter above. 
And Cupid had appointed they should love. 




They curst the wall which did their kisses part, 
And to the stones their dolorous words they sent, 
As if they saw the sorrow of their heart, 
And by their teares could understand their smart : 
But it was hard, and knew not what they meant, 
Nor with their sighs (alas) would it relent. 


This in cfieft they said ; Cursed wally O why 

tVilt thou our bodus sever^ whose true love 

Breakes thorow all thy flintie cruiltie : 

For both our soules so closely joyned lye^ 

TTfat nought hut angry Death can them removey 
And though he part them^ yet theyW meet above. 

Abortive teares from their faire eyes straight flow'd, 
And damm'd the lovely splendour of their [sijght. 
Which seem'd like Titan^ whilst some watry Cloud 
OVespreads his face, and his bright beames doth shrowd. 
Till Vesper chas'd away the conquered light. 
And forceth them (though loth) to bid Good-night. 


But ere Aurora^ Usher to the Day, 
Began with welcome lustre to appeare. 
The Lovers rise, and at that crannie they 
Thus to each other, their thoughts open lay. 
With many a Sigh, many a speaking Teare, 
Whose griefe the pitying Morning blusht to heare. 

Deare Love (quoth Pyramus) how long shall wee 
Like fairest Flowers^ not gathered in their prime^ 
Waste precious youthj and let advantage flee^ 
Till wee bewaile {at last) our crueltie 

Upon our selves^ for Beautie though it shine 
Like dayy will quickly finde an Evening time. 

C. u. C 33 


Tbtrtfert (sweet Thisbe) iet ui meet this night 

At Ninus Tembey without the Gtii wall. 

Under the Mulberry-Tree, with Berries white 

Abcunding, there t'enjoy our wisht delight. 

For mounting Love stapt in his course, doth fillip 
And hng'd for, yet unSasted "Joy, kills all, 

What though our cruell parents angry bee ? 
What though our friends (alas) are too unltinde? 
Time now propitious, may anon deny, 
And soone hold backe, fit opportunity. 

Who lets slip Fortune, her shell never finde. 

Occasion once pass'd by, is balde behinde. 

Shee soone agreed to that which hee requir'd, 
For little fVooing needs, where both consent; 
What hee so long had pleaded, shee desir'd : 
Which f^enus seeing, with blinde Chance conspir'd, 
And many a charming accent to her sent, 
That shee (at last) would frustrate their intent. 

Thus Beautie is by Beauties meanes undone, 
Striving to close these eyes that make her bright; 
Just like the Moone, which scekes t'eclipse the Sun, 
Whence all her splendour, all her beames doc come : 
So shee, who fetcheth lustre from their sight, 
Doth purpose to destroy their glorious light. 

1 8. 

Unto the Mulberrf'tree, sweet Thisbe came; 

Where having rested long, at last shee gan 

Against her Pyramut for to exclaime, 

Whil'st various thoughts turmoile her troubled braine: 
And imitating thus the Silver Swan, 
A little while before her Death ihtt sang. 


The Song. 

COmi Laviy why stayest thtm ? The night 
tVill vanish ere wee taste delight : 
The Moom obscures her selfe from sight^ 
Thou ahsenty whose eyes give her light. 


Come^ickfyy Deare^ he briefe as Time^ 
Or weg by Mome shall be o^retane^ 
Loves yoy*s thine owne as well as mine^ 
Spend not therefore the time in vaine. 


Here doubtfiill thoughts broke off her pleasant Song^ 
Against her love for staying shee gan crie ; 
Her Pyramus shee thought did tarry long, 
And that his absence did her too much wrong. 
Then betwixt longing hope, and jealousie, 
Shee feares, yet*s loth, to tax his loyaltie. 


Sometimes shee thinkes, that hee hath her forsaken ; 

Sometimes, that danger hath befallen to him ; 

Shee feares that hee another love hath taken : 

Which being but imaginM, soone doth waken 

Numberlesse thoughts, which on her heart doe fling 
Feares, that her mture fate too truely sing. 


Whil'st shee thus musing sate, ranne from the Wood 
An angry Lyon, to the cristall Springs 
Neere to that place ; who comming from his food, 
His chaps were all besmear'd with crimson bloud : 
Swifter then thought, sweet Thisbe straight begins 
To flye from him, feare gave her Svirallowes wings. 

C2 35 


As shee avoids the Lion, her desire 
Bids her to stay, lest Pyramui should come, 
And be devour d by the sterne Lions ire, 
So shee for ever burne in unquencht fire ; 
But fcare expells all reasons, shee doth runne 
Into a darksome Cave, ne'r seene by Sunne. 


With haste shcc let her looser Mantle fall : 
Which when th'enraged Lion did espie, 
With bloudv teeth, he tore't in pieces small, 
Whil'st Thisbe ran and lookt not baclce at all. 

For could the sencelessc beast her lace descrie, 

It had not done her such an injurie. 

The night halfe wasted, Pyramus did come ; 
Who seeing printed in the subtill sand 
The Lions paw, and by the fountaine some 
Of Thiibts garment, sorrow strucltc him dumbe : 
Just like a Marble Statue did he stand, 
Cut by some skilfull Gravers cunning hand. 

Recovering breath, 'gainst Fate he gan t'exclaime, 
Washing with teares the torne and bloudv weed : 
I may, said he, my selfe for her death blame ; 
Therefore my bloud shall wash away that shune: 
SiiKt thee IS dead, whtse Beautie dath txutd 
Ail that fraiU man can lither heart or reade. 

This speaking, hee his sharpe Sword drew, and said ; 
Receive thou my red bleud, as a due debt 
Unit thy umtanl Love, to which 'tis paid : 
I liraigot will meete thee sn the pleasant shade 
Of coole Elysium ; where wee being met. 
Shall taste the Jtyes, that here wee could not yet. 



Then thorow his brcst thrusting his Sword, Life hies 
From him, and hec makes haste to seeke his &ire. 
And as upon the cHmsond ground hec lies, 
His bloud spirt'd up upon the Mulberries: 
With which th'unspotted berries stained were, 
Ami ever tinct with Red they coloured art. 

At last, came Thisbe from the Den, for feare 
Of disappointing Pyramus, being shee 
Was bound by promrte, for to meete him there : 
But when shee saw the Berries changed were 
From white to blacke, shee knew not certaincly 
It was the place where they agreed to be. 


With what delight from the darke Cave shee came. 

Thinking to tell how shee escap'd the Beast; 

But when shee saw her Pyramui lie slaine. 

In what perplexitie shee did remaine ! 

Shee tcares her Golden haire, and beates her brest, 
All signes of raging sorrow shee exprest. 

Shee cries 'gainst mighty Jove, and then doth take 
His bleeding body from the moistned ground. 
Shee kisses his pale &ce, till shee doth niake 
It red with kissing, and then seekes to wake 

His parting soule with mournfiill words, and's wound 
Washeth with teares, which her sweet speech confound. 

But afterwards recovering breath, quoth shee, 
(Aiai) tuhat chance hath parted thee and I? 
O tell what evUl hath befallen to thee, 
That of thy Death I may a Partner bee : 

Tell Toisbe, what haxh caus'd this Tragedie. 

He hearing Thitbe^i name, lift up his eye, 


And on his Love he rais'd his dying head: 
Where striving long for breath, at last, said hce j 
O Thtsbe, / am halting ta the dead. 
And cannot heale that fVound my feare hath bred : 
Farewell, suieet Thisbe, xvee must parted bte, 
Fcr angry Death will force me gte from Thee. 

Life did from him, hcc from his Mistris part, 
Leaving his Leve to languish here in woe. 
What shall shee doe i How shall shee ease her heart F 
Or with what language speake her inward smart P 
Usurping passion reason doth o'reflow, 
Shee swcares that with her Pyramui shcc'I goe, 


Then ukes the Sword wherewith her Love was slaine, 

With Pyramui his crimson blood warme still ; 

And said, Oh stay (blett Soule) that to uite ttuaine 

May goe together, where wee thall remaine 
In endliise Joyfi, and never fiare the ill 
Of grudging Friends : Then she her selfe did kill. 

To tell what gnefe their Parents did sustaine, 
Were more than my rude Quill can overcome. 
Many a tearc they spent, but all in vainc, 
For weeping calls not backe the Dead againe. 
They both were layed in one Grave, life done, 
And these few words were writ upon the Tombe. 




UNdemeatb this Marble Stongy 
Lye two Beauties joyrCd in one. 


Two whose loves Death could not sever^ 
For both liv'dy both dfd together. 

Two whose SouliSy being too divine 

For earthy in their owne Spheare now shine. 

Who have left their Loves to Fame^ 
And their earth to earth againe. 




An Elegie on the Death of the Right Honour- 
able, Dudley Lord Carleton^ Viscount Dor- 
chester^ late Principall Secretary of State. 

THe infernall SisterSy did a Counsell call 
Of all the fiendsy to the black Stygian Hall ; 
The dire Tartarean MonsterSy hating tighty 
Begot by dismall Erebus, and Night, 
ff^heresoe^re dispersed abroady hearing the Fame 
Of their accursed meetingy thither came 
Revenge, whose greedy mind no Blood can filly 
And En vie, never satisfied with ill. 
Thither blind Boldnesse, and impatient Rage, 
Resort edy with Death* s neighbour envious Age, 
And Messengers diseasesy wheresoeWe 
Then wandringy at the Senate present were : 
fVhom to oppresse the Earthy the Furies sent 
To spare the Guiltyy vex the innocent. 
The Councell thus dissolv*dy an angry f every 
Whose quenchlesse thirsty by blood was sated never : 
Envying the Riches y Honour y Greatnessey Lovey 
And Vertue {LoadstonCy which all these did move) 
Of Noble Carleton, him she tooke awayy 
And like a greedy f^ulture seised her prey : 
fVeep with me each who either reades or heareSy 
And know his lossey deserves his Countries teares : 
The Muses lost a Patron by his Fatey 
Vertue a Husbandy and a Prop the State, 
Sol's Chorus weepeSy and to adorne his Herse 
Calliope would sing a Tragic ke Verse. 

And had there been before no Spring of theirsy 
They would have made a Helicon wtth teares, 

Abra. Cowley. 



An Elegie on the death of my loving Friend 
and Cousen, Master Richard Clerke^ late of 
Uncolns Inne^ Gent. 

IT was decreed by stedfast Destinies 
{The world from Chaos turrCd) that all should die. 
Hei who durst feareUsse passe blacke Acheron 
And dangers of the infernall Region^ 
Leading Hells triple Porter captivate^ 
Was overcome himselfe^ by conquering Fate. 
The Roman Tullie*s pleasing Eloquence^ 
Which in the Eares did locke up every Sence 
Of the rapt hearer^ his mellifluous breath 
Could not at all charme unremonelesse Death, 
Nor Solon so by Greece admir^dj could save 
Himselfe with all his Wisdome^ from the Grave, 
Sterne Fate brought Maro to his Funerall flame^ 
And would have ended in that fire his Fame; 
Burning those lofty LineSj which now shall be 
Times conquerersy and out-last Eternity, 
Even so bv*d Clerk from death no scape could findy 
Though arnfd with great Alcides valiant mind. 
He was adorned in yeeres though farre more youngs 
With learned Cicero*s, or a sweeter Tongue, 
And could dead Virgil heare his lofty straine^ 
He would condemne his owne to fire againe. 
His youth a Solons wisdome did presage^ 
Had envious Time but given him Solons age. 
Who would not therefore nowy if Learnings friendj 
Bewaile his fatall and untimely end : 
Who hath such hardy such unrelenting EyeSy 
As would not weep when so much Vertue dyes? 
The God of Poets doth in darknesse shrowd 
His glorious facey and weepes behind a Cloud, 
The dolefull Muses thinking now to write 
Sad Elegies, their teares confound their sight : 
But him to Elysiums lasting Joyes they bringy 
Where winged Angels his sad Requiems sing, 

A, C. 





PHabus expuh'd by the a[pp]roaching Night 
Blush'd, and for shame clos'd in his bashful! light; 
Whilst I with leaden Merphtus overcome, 
The Muie^ whom I adore, enterd the roome. 
Her hayre with looser curiositie, 
Did on her comely backe dishevel'd lye. 
Her Eyes with such attraflive beauty shone, 
As might have wak'd sleeping Endymion. 
She bid me rise, and promis'd I should see 
Those Fields, those Mansions of Felicity, 
Wee mortalls so admire at: Speaking thus, 
She lifts me up upon wing'd Pegasus. 
On whom I rid : knowing where ever she 
Did goe, that place must needs a Tempe be. 

No sooner was my flying Courser come 
To the blest dwellings of Elysium : 
When straight a thousand unknowne joyes resort. 
And hemm'd me round : Chast loves innocuous sport. 
A thousand sweets, bought with no following Gail, 
Joyes, not like ours, short, but perpetuall. 
How many objedls charme my wandring eye, 
And bid my soule gaze there eternally f 
Here in full streames, Bacchus thy liquor tlowes, 
Nor knowes to ebbe : here Javts broad Tree bestowes 
Distilling hony, heere doth Ntiior passe 
With copious current through the verdant Grassc. 
Here Hyacinth, his fete writ in his lookes. 
And thou Narciiiui loving still the Brookes, 


Once lovely boyes ; and Acts now a Flower, 

Are nourishty with that rarer herbe, whose power 

Created thee, Warres potent God, here growes 

The spotlesse Lillie, and the blushing Rose. 

And all those divers ornaments abound. 

That variously may paint the gawdy ground. 

No Willow, sorrowes Garland, there hath roome. 

Nor Cypresse, sad attendant of a Tombe. 

None but Apollfs Tree, and th*Ivie Twine 

Imbracing the stout Oake, the fruitfuU Vine, 

And Trees with golden Apples loaded downe, 

On whose fiiire toppes sweet Philomel alone, 

UnmindftiU of her former miserie. 

Tunes with her voyce a ravishing Harmonie. 

Whilst all the murmuring Brookes that glide along. 

Make up a burthen to her pleasing Song. 

No Scritchowley sad companion of the Night, 

Or hideous Raven with prodigious flight 

Presaging future ill. Nor, Progne^ thee 

Yet spotted with young Itis Tragedie, 

Those Sacred Bowers receive. There's nothing there. 

That is not pure, immaculate, and rare. 

Turning my greedy sight another way. 

Under a row of storme-contemning Bay, 

I saw the Thracian Singer with his lyre 

Teach the deafe stones to heare him, and admire. 

Him the whole Poets Chorus compass'd round. 

All whom the Oake, all whom the Lawrell crown'd. 

There banish'd Ovid had a lasting home. 

Better than thou couldst give ingratefull Rome ; 

And Lucan (spight of Nero) in each veine 

Had every drop of his spilt bloud againe : 

Homery SoPs first borne, was not poore or blinde. 

But saw as well in body as in minde. 

Tulliej grave CatOy Solon^ and the rest 

Of Gnecii admirM Wisemen, here possest 

A large reward for their past deeds, and gaine 

A life, as everlasting as their Fame. 

By these, the valiant Heroes take their place. 
All who Sterne Death and perils did imbrace 



For Vtrtuii cause. Great Alexander there 
Laughing at the Earth's small Empire, did weare 
A Nobler Crowne, than the whole world could give. 
There did Horatius CocleSy ScevOy live, 
And valiant DeciuSy who now freely cease 
From Warre, and purchase an eternall peace. 

Next them, beneath a Mirtle Bowre, where Doves, 
And gall-lesse Pidgeons build their nests, all Loves 
Faith^U perseverers, with amorous kisses. 
And soft imbraces, taste their greediest wishes. 
Leander with his beauteous Hero playes. 
Nor are they parted with dividing Seas. 
Porcia injoyes her Brutus^ Death no more 
Can now divorce their Wedding, as before. 
Thisbe her Pyramus kiss'd, his Thisbe hee 
Embraced, each blest with th'others company. 
And every couple alwayes dancing, sing 
Eternall Ditties to Elysiums King. 
But see how soone these pleasures fade away. 
How neere to Evening is delights short Day ? 
For th'watching Bird, true Nuncius of the Light 
Straight crowd : and all these vanisht from my sight. 
My very Muse her selfe forsooke mee too. 
Me griefe and wonder wak'd : What should I doe ? 
Oh 1 let me follow thee (said I) and goe 
From life, that I may Dreame for ever so. 
With that my flying Muse I thought to claspe 
Within my armes, but did a shadow graspe. 

Thus chtifest Joyes glide with the swiftest streamgy 
And all our greatest pleasure's but a Dreame, 

A. C. 







Made upon sundry occasions 

by A. C, 


Printed by E. P. for Henry Sbile 

and are to bee sold at his shop at the signe of 

the Tygers-head in Fleet-street betweene 

the Bridge and the Conduit. 



On his Majesties returne out of Scotland. 

GReat Charles: there stop you Trumpeters of Fame, 
(For he who speakes his Titles, his great Name 
Must have a breathing time,) Our King: stay there, 
Tel't bv degrees, let the inquisitive eare 
Be hela in doubt, and ere you say, /; comiy 
Let every heart prepare a spatious roome 
For ample joyes : then l9 sing as loud 
As thunder shot from the divided cloud. 

Let Cygnus plucke from the Arabian waves 
The ruby of the rocke, the pearle that paves 
Great Neptunes Court, let every sparrow beare 
From the three Sisters weeping barke a teare. 
Let spotted Lynces their sharpe tallons fill 
With chrystalf fetch'd from the Promethean hill. 
Let Cythereas birds fresh wreathes compose. 
Knitting the pale fac't Lillie with the Rose. 
Let the selfe-gotten Phoenix rob his nest, 
Spoile his owne funerall pile, and all his best 
Of Myrrhe, of Frankincense, of Cassia bring. 
To strew the way for our returned King. 

Let every post a Panegyricke weare. 
Each wall, each pillar gratulations beare : 
And yet let no man invocate a Muse ; 
The very matter will it selfe infuse 
A sacred fiiry. Let the merry Bells 
(For unknowne joyes worke unknowne miracles) 
Ring without helpe of Sexton^ and presage 
A new-made holy-day for future age. 

And if the Ancients us'd to dedicate 
A golden Temple to propitious fate, 
At the returne of any Noble men. 
Of Heroes, or of Emperours, wee must then 
Raise up a double Trophee^ for their fame 
Was but the shadow of our CHARLES his name. 
Who is there where all vertues mingled flow ? 
Where no defeats, no imperfections grow ? 



Whose head is alwayes crown'd with vi&ory, 

Snatch'd from BelUnas hand, him luxuiy 

In peace debilitates, whose tongue can win, 

7ulEts owne Garland, to him pride creeps in. 

On whom (like Atlat shoulders) the propt state 

(As he were Primum MtbUt of fete) 

Solely, relics, him blind ambition moves. 

His tyranny the bridled subjeA proves. 

But ^1 those vcrtues which they all possest 

Divided, arc coUedcd in thy brest, 

Great Cbarlei^ Let Cteiar boast P^^ha^na/ias fight, 

Heiurius praise the Parlhians unfeyn'd flight. 

Let Alexander call himself yeves peere. 

And place his Image next the Thunderer, 

Yet whilst our CharUt with equal) ballance reignes 

*Twixt Mercy and Astrea, and maintaines 

A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis onely he 

Who is most neere, most like the Deitie. 

A Song on the same. ''_. 

HEtK€ clauded luies, htnct briny tearts 
Henct eye, that iorrows Hvtry weares. 
fVhat though a while Apollo p/tase 
TV visit the Antipodes? 
Tet he rttumes, and with his light 
Expels, uihat he hath caused, the night. 
JVhat though tbt spring vanish away. 
And vjilh it the tarths firme decay ? 
Tet afi new birth it will restore 
JVhat it's departure tooie before. 
What though vJi mist our absent King 
Erewhile? Great Charles is tome agin. 
And, with his presence makes us know. 
The gratitude to Heaven wee owe. 
St doth a cruell storme impart 
And teach us Palinurus art. 
So from salt Jlouds, wept by our eyes, 
A joyJuU Venus doth arise. 

A Vote. 

IEst the misconstn'ng world should chvicc to say, 
_^ I durst not but in secret murmurs pray, 

To whisper in Jovei eare, 
How much I wish that mnerall, 
Or gape at such a great ones fiill, 

This let all ages heare, 
And future times in my soules pifhire see 
What I abhorre, what I desire to bee. 

I would not be a Puritan, though he 
Can preach two houres, and yet his Sermon be 

But halfe a quarter long, 
Though from his old mechanicke trade 
By vision hee's a Pastor made. 

His faith was growne so strong. 
Nay though he thinkc to gaine salvation, 
By calling th'Pope the Whore of Babylon. 

I would not be a School- master, though he 
His Rods no lesse than Fasces deemes to be, 

Though he in many a place, 
Turnes Lilly oftner than his gowncs, 
Till at the last hee make the Nownes, 

Fight with the Vcrbcs apace. 
Nay though he can in a Poetickc heat, 
Figures, borne since, out of poore f^irgUl beat. 

I would not be Justice of Peace, though he 
Can with equality divide the Fee, 

And stakes with his Clarke draw. 
Nay though he sit upon the place 
Of Judgement with a learned face 

Intricate as the Law, 
And whilst he mul£h enormities demurely, 
Breaks Pritc'tans head with sentences securely. 


I would not be a Courtier, though he 
Makes his whole life the truest Comedy : 

Although he be a man 
In whom the Taylors forming Art, 
And nimble Barber claime more part 

Than Nature her selfe can. 
Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent 
To put off death too, with a Complemen 

From Lawyers tongues, though they can spin with ease 
The shortest cause into a Paraphrase, 

From Usurers conscience 
(For swallowing up young Heyres so ^t 
Without all doubt, they'l choakt at last) 

Make me all innocence 
Good Heaven ; and from thy eyes, 6 Justice keepe, 
For though they be not blind, they're oft asleepc. 

From Singing-mens Religion ; who are 
Alwayes at Church just like the Crowes, 'cause there 

They build themselves a nest. 
From too much Poetry, which shines 
With gold in nothing but its lines. 

Free, fl you powers, my brest. 
And from Astronomy within the skies 
Finds fish, and bulls, yet doth but Tantalize. 

From your Court-Madams beauty, which doth cany 
At morning May, at night a January. 

From the grave City brow 
(For though it want an R, it has 
The letter of Pythagoras) 

Keepe me 6 Fortune now. 
And chines of beefe innumerable send me. 
Or from the stomacke of the Guard defi;nd me. 


This oncly grant me : that my meanes may lye 
Too low for cnvie, for contempt too high. 

Some honour I would have, 
Not from great deeds, but good alone, 
Th'ignote are better than ill knowne 

R[u]mor can ope the grave. 
Ac<]uaintance I would hug, but when't depends 
Not from the number, but the choysc of friends. 


Bookes should, not businesse, entertainc the h'ght, 
And slcepe, as undisturb'd as death the night. 

My house a cottage more 
Then palace, and should fitting be 
For all my use, no luxurie. 

My garden painted ore 
With natures hand, not arts and pleasures yield, 
Horace might envie in his Sabint field. 

Thus would I double my Ufes &ding space, 
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight, 
These unbought sports, and happy state, 
I would nor feare, nor wish my fate, 

But boldly say each night, 
To morrow let my Sunne liis beames display, 
Or in clouds hide them ; I havi liv'J tit day. 

A Poeticall Revenge. 

WEitminster-HaU a friend and I agreed 
To meet in ; hee (some busines 'twas did breed 
His absence) came not there ; I up did goe. 
To the next Court for though I could not know 
Much what they meant, yet I might see and heare 
(As most spectators doc at Theater) 
Things very strange ; Fortune did seeme to grace 
My comming there, and helpt me to a place. 


But being newly setlcd at the sport, 
A semi-gentleman of th'lnnes of Courtt 
In a Satiin suite, redecm'd but yesterday; 
One who is ravisht with a Cock-pit Play, 
Who prayes God to deliver him from no evill 
Besides a Taylors bill, and feares no Devill 
Besides a Serjeant, thrust me from my seat : 
At which I gan to quarrel!, till a neat 
Man in a ruffe (whom therefore I did take 
For Barrister) open'd his mouth and spake ; 
Boy, get you gone, this is no Schoole : Oh no ; 
For if it were, all you gown'd-men would goe 
Up for false Latin ; they grew straight to be 
Incenst, I fear'd they would have brought on me 
An A^ion of Trcspas, till th'young man 
Aforesaid, in the Sattin suit, began 
To strike me : doubtlesse there had bccnc a fray, 
Had not I providently skipp'd away, 
Without replying; for to scould Is ill. 
Where every tongue's the clapper of a Mill, 
And can out-sound Hamers Gradivut ; so 
Away got I : but ere I farre did goe, 
I flung (the Darts of wounding Psetnt) 
These two or three sharpe cur^s backe : May hee 
Be by his Father in his Study tooke 
At Sbaitipearis Playes, in stead of my L. Cuoie. 
May hee (though all his Writings grow as soone 
As Butun out of estimation) 
Get him a Poets name, and so nc'r come 
Into a Sergeants, or dead Judges roomc. 
r May hee (for 'tis sinne in a Laivyer) 
■ True Latin use to speake, even at the Barre. 
iMay hee become some poorc Physicians prey, 
|Who keepes men with that conscience in delay 
> he his Clyents doth, till his health bee 
s ferre fetch'd as a Greeke Nownes pedigree. 
'or all that, may the disease be gone 
Never but in the long Vacation. 
May Neighbours use all Quarrels to decide ; 
But if for Law any to Lendan ride. 


Of all those Clients may no one be his, 
Unlcssc he come in Farma Pauperis. 

Grant this you Gods, that fevour Poetry, 
That so at last these ceaselcssc tongues may be 
Brought into reformation, and not dare 
To quarrell with a thrcdbare Black ; but spare 

Them who bearc Scholars names, lest some one take 

Spleenc, and another Ignsremus make. 

To the Duchesse of Buckingham. 

IF I should say, that in your face were scene 
Natures best Pitturc of the Cyprian Qucene ; 
If I should sweare under Minerva's Name, 
Peels (who Prophets are) fore-told your fitme. 
The future age would thinke it flatterie, 
But to the present which can witncsse be, 
Twould seeme beneath your high deserts, as &rre, 
As you above the rest of Women are, 

When Manners name with f^illieri joyn'd I see, 
How doe I reverence your Nobilitie 1 
But when the vertues of your Stock I view, 
(Envi'd in your dead Lord, admir'd in you) 
I halfc adore them : for what woman can 
Besides your selfe (nay I might say what man) 
Both Scxe, and Birth, and Fate, and yeeres excell 
In mtnde, in fame, in worth, in living well? 

Oh, how had this begot Idolatrie, 
If you had liv'd in the Worlds in&ncic, 
When mans too much Religion, made the best 
Or Deities, or Semi-gods at least ? 
But wee, forbidden this by pietie. 
Or, if wee T*ere not, by your modcstie, 
Will make our hearts an Altar, and there prajr 
Not to, but for you, nor that England may 
Enjoy your cquall, when you once are gone, 
But what's more possible, t'enjoy you long. 


/ To his very much honoured Godfather ^ 

Master A. B. 

ILove (for that upon the wings of Fame 
Shall perhaps mock Death or times Darts) my Name. 
I love it more, because 'twas given by you ; 
I love it most, because 'twas your name too. 
For if I chance to slip, a conscious shame 
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name. 

I'm glad that Citie t'whom I ow'd before, 
(But ah me I Fate hath crost that willing Score) 
A Father, gave me a Godfather too. 
And I'm more glad, because it gave me you; 

Whom I may rightly thinke, and terme to be 

Of the whole Citie an Epitomie. 

I thanke my carefull Fate, which found out one 
(When Nature had not licenced my tongue 
Farther then cryes) who should my office doe ; 
I thanke her more, because shee found out you : 

In whose each looke, I may a sentence see ; 

In whose each deed, a teaching Homily. 

How shall I pay this debt to you ? My Fate 
Denyes me Indian Pearle or Persian Plate. 
Which though it did not, to requite you thus. 
Were to send Apples to AlcinoUs^ 
And sell the cunning'st way : No, when I can 
In every Leafe, in every verse write Man, 
When my Quill relisheth a Schoole no more, 
When my pen-feather'd Muse hath learnt to soare. 
And gotten wings as well as feet ; looke then 
For ^uall thankes from my unwearied Pen : 
Till future ages say; 'twas you did give 
A name to me, and I made yours to live. 


An Elegie on the Death of 

M™ Anne Whitfield. 

SHee^s deadj and like the boure that stole her bencej 
fVith as much quietnesse and innocence. 
And *tis as difficult a taske to winne 
Her travelling soule backe to its former Inne^ 
As force that houre^ fled without tra£f away^ 
To turney and stop the current of the day. 

Whaty shall we weepe for this ? and cloath our eye 
With sorrow^ the Graves mourning Liverief 
Or shall we sigh? and with that pious winde 
Drive faster on what we alreadie finde 
Too swift for usy her soule ? No ; shee who dy^de 
Like the stcke Sunne^ when Night entombes his pride \ 
Or Trees in Autumne^ when unseene decay 
And slow consumption steales the leaves away^ 
Without one murmur^ shewes that she did see 
Death as a goody not as a miserie. 

And so she went to undiscovered Fieldsy 
From whence no path hope of returning yeelds 
To any Travellery and it must be 
Our solace now to court her memorie. 
fVeeU tell how love was dandled in her eye^ 
Tet curVd with a beseeming gravitie. 
And how (beleeve it you that heare or reade) 
Beautie and Chastitie met and agreed 
In hery although a Courtier : Wee will tell 
How farre her noble spirit did excell 
HerSy nay our Sexe : wee will repeat her NamCy 
And force the Letters to an Anagram. 
Whitfield weeU cryy and amorous windes shall be 
Ready to snatch that words sweet harmonie 
Ere *tis spoke out : Thus wee must dull griefes stingy 
And cheat the sorrow that her losse would bring: 
Thus in our hearts wee'l bury hery and there 
Wefl writey Here lyes Whitfield the chast, and fairc. 

Art may no doubt a statelier Tombe inventy 

But not like thisy a living Monument. 



An Elegie on the Death of yohn Little- 
ton Esquire, Sonne and Heire to Sir Thomas 
Littleton^ who was drowned leaping into the water 
to save his younger Brother. 

\Nii must these waters smile againe? and play 
£\, About the shorej as they did yesterday ? 
Will the Sun court them still? and shall they show 
No conscious wrinckle furrowed on their broWj 
That to the thirsty Travellor may say^ 
I am accurst^ goe turne some other way? 

It is unjust ; black floud^ thy guilt ts morcj 
Sprung from Ins hsse^ then all thy watry store 
Can give thee teares to mourne for : Birds shall bee 
And Beasts henceforth afraid to drinke of thee. 

What have I said? my pious rage hath beene 
Too hoty and aSfs whilst it accuseth sinne, 
ThouWt innocent I know^ still cleare^ and bright^ 
Fit whence so pure a soule should take ii*s flight. 
How is my angry zeale confirCd? for hee 
Must quarrell with his love and pieticy 
That would revenge his death. Oh I shall sinne^ 
And wish anon he had lesse vertuous beene. 
For when his Brother (teares for him Pde spilly 
But they're all challenged by the greater ill) 
Struglid for life with the rude waveSy he too 
Leapt iny and when hope no faint beame could shoWy 
His charitie shone most ; thou shalty said heCy 
Live with mcy Brothery or He dye with thee ; 
And so he did : Had he beene thinCy 6 Rome, 
Thou wouldst have calPd this death a MartyrdomCy 
And Saynted him'y my conscience give me leavcy 
He doe so too: if fate will us bereave 
Of him we honoured livingy there must be 
A kinde of reverence to his memoricy 



After bis death : and where more just then here^ 

tvhere life and end were both so singuler? 

Of which tVone grieft^ the other imitation 

Of all men vindicates^ both admiration. 

Me that had onely talkt with him^ might finde 

A little Academic in his minde\ 

Where Wiscdome, Master was^ and Fellowes all 

Which we can goody which we can vertuous call. 

Reason and Holy Feare the Proftors were^ 

To apprehend those wordsj those thoughts that erre. 

His learning had out-run the rest of heyres^ 

Stolm Beard from time^ and leapt to twentie yeares. 

And as the Sunne^ though in full glorie bright^ 

Shines upon all men with impartiall lighty 

And a good morrow to the begger brings 

With as full rayes as to the mightiest Kings : 

So hej although his worth Just state might claime^ 

And give to pride an honourable name^ 

With curtesie to ally cloath^d vertue soj 

That *twas not higher then his thoughts wen low, 

In*s body tooy no Critique eye could finde 

The smallest blemish^ to belye his mtnde ; 

He was all purenesse^ and his outward part 

The looking'glasse and piSfure of his heart. 

When waters swallowed mankinde^ and did cheat 

The hungry Worme of its expected meat ; 

When gemmeSy pluckt from the shore by ruder hands^ 

Returned againe unto their native sands \ 

^Mongst all those spoyleSy there was not any prey 

Could equall what this Brooke hath stolne away. 

Weepe then^ sad Floud\ and though thouWt innocent^ 
Weepe because fate made thee her instrument : 
And when long griefe hath drunke up all thy store^ 
Come to our eyeSy and we will lend thee more. 



A translation of Verses upon the B. Virgin, 

written in Latine by the right 

Worshipfull Dr. A. 

Ave Maria, 

ONce thou rejoycedst, and rejoyce for ever, 
Whose time of joy shall be expired never : 
Who in her wombe the Hive of Comfort beares, 
Let her drinke Comforts Honey with her eares. 
You brought the word of joy, which did impart 
An Haile to all, let us An Hai/e redart. 
From you God save into the World there came; 
Our £ccbo Haile is but an empty name. 

Gratia Plena, 

How loaded Hives are with their Honie filFd, 
From diverse Flowres by Chimicke Bees distill'd: 
How fiill the Collet with his Jewell is, 
Which, that it cannot take, by love doth kisse: 
How full the Moone is with her Brothers ray. 
When shee drinks up with thirsty or be the day. 
How full of Grace the Graces dances are. 
So fiill doth Mary of Gods light appeare. 
It is no wonder if with Graces she 
Be full, who was full with the Deitie. 

Dominus tecum. 

The fall of mankind under deaths extent 
The quire of blessed Angels did lament. 
And wisht a reparation to see 
By him, who manhood joyn'd with Deitie. 
How gratefull should Mans safety then appeare 
T'himsclfe, whose safety can the Angels cheare ? 




Benedilta tu in mulitribus, 

Dtath came, and troopes of sad dUeasti led 

To th'earth, by womans hand solicited. 

iV^ came so too, and troopes of Graces led 

To th'carth, by womans faith solicited. 

As our lifes spring came from thy blessed wombe, 

So from our mouthes springs of thy praise shall come. 

Who did lifes blessing give, 'tis fit that she 

Above all women should thrice blessed be. 

Et henedi£lus fruEius ventris tui. 

With mouth divine the Father doth protest, 

Hee a good word sent from his stored brest, 

'Twas Christ: which Mary without carnall thought, 

From the unfatham'd depth of goodnesse brought, 

The word of blessing a just cause affoords. 

To be oft blessed with redoubled words. 

Spiritus San£Ius iuperveniet in tt^ 
As when soft West winds strooke the Garden Rose, 
A showrc of sweeter ayre salutes the Nose. 
The breath gives sparing kisses, nor with powre 
Unlocks the Virgin bosome of the Flowre. 
So tWHsIj Spirit upon Mary blow'd. 
And from her sacred Box whole rivers flow'd. 
Yet loos'd not thine cternall chastity, 
Thy Roses folds doe still entangled lye. 
Beleeve Christ borne from an unbruised wombe. 
So from unbruised Barke the Odors come. 

Et virtus altistimi ehumbrahst tibi. 
God his great Sonne begot ere time b^unne, 
Mary in time brought forth her little Sonne. 
Of double substance, one, life hee began, 
Ged without Mather, without Father Man. 
Great is this birth, and 'tis a stranger deed, 
That thee no man, then God no wife should need. 


A shade delighted the Child-bearing Maid, 
And God himselfe became to her a shade. 
O strange descent! who is lights Author, hee 
Will to his creature thus a shadow bee. 
As unseene light did from the Father flow, 
So did seene light from Firgin Marie grow. 
When Moses sought God in a shade to see. 
The Fathers shade was, Christ the Deitie, 
Let's seeke for day we darknesse, whil'st our sight 
In light findes darknesse, and in darknesse light. 

/ode I. 

On the praise of Poetry. 

"HP^Is not a Pyramide of Marble stone, 
X Though high as our ambition, 

nris not a Tombe cut out in Brasse, which can 

Give life to th'ashes of a man. 
But Verses onely; they shall fresh appeare, 

Whil'st there are men to reade, or heare. 
When Time shall make the lasting Brasse decay. 

And eate the Pyramide away. 
Turning that Monument wherein men trust 

Their names, to what it keepes, poore dust: 
Then shall the Epitaph remaine, and be 

New graven in Eternitie. 
Poets by death are conquered, but the wit 

Of Poets triumph over it. 
What cannot Verse? When Thracian Orpheus tooke 

His Lyre, and gently on it strooke. 
The learned stones came dancing all along. 

And kept time to the charming song. 
With artificiall pace the Warlike Pine^ 

TVElmej and his Wife the Ivy twine j 
With all the better trees, which erst had stood 

Unmov'd, forsooke their native Wood. 



The Lawrell to the Poets hand did bow, 

Craving the honour of his brow : 
And every loving arme embrac'd, and made 

With their officious leaves a shade. 
The beasts too strove his auditors to be, 

Forgetting their old Tyrannie. 
The fearefuU Hart next to the Lion came, 

And JVolfe was Shipheard to the Lambe. 
Nightingalis^ harmlesse Syrens of the ayre, 

And Muses of the place, were there. 
Who when their little windpipes they had found 

Unequall to so strange a sound, 
O'recome by art and griefe they did expire. 

And fell upon the conquering Lyre. 
Happy, 6 happy they, whose Tombe might be, 

MausoluSy envied by thee ! 


That a pleasant Poverty is to be preferred 
before discontented Riches. 


WHy 6 doth gaudy Tagus ravish thee. 
Though Neptunes Treasure-house it be? 
Why doth PaSiolus thee bewitch, 
Infedled yet with Midas glorious Itch ? 


Their dull and sleepie streames are not at all 
Like other Flouds, Poetically 
They have no dance, no wanton sport. 

No gentle murmur, the lov'd shore to court. 


No Fish inhabite the adulterate Floud, 

Nor can it feed the neighbouring Wood, 
No Flower or Herbe is neere it found. 

But a perpetuall Winter sterves the ground. 




Give me a River which doth scorne to shew 
An added beauty, whose cleere brow 
May be my looking-glasse, to see 

What my face is, and what my mind should be. 

Here waves call waves, and glide along in ranke, 

And prattle to the smiling banke. 

Here sad King fishers tell their tales, 
And fish enrich the Brooke with silver scales. 


Dasjes the first borne of the teeming Spring, 
On each side their embrodery bring, 
Here LilUes wash, and grow more white. 

And Daffadilb to see themselves delight. 

Here a fresh Arbor gives her amorous shade. 

Which Naturiy the best Gardiner made. 

Here I would set, and sing rude layes. 
Such as the Nimpbs and me my selfe should please. 


Thus I would waste, thus end my carelesse dayes. 
And Robin^red'brests whom men praise 
For pious birds, should when I dye. 

Make both my Monument and Elegie, 


To his. Mistris. 

TYrtan dye why doe you weare 
You whose cheekes best scarlet are ? 
Why doc you fondly pin 
Pure linnens ore your skin. 
Your skin that's whiter farre. 
Casting a duskie cloud before a Starre ? 




Why bearcs your ncckc a golden chayne t 
Did Nature make your hairc in vaine, 

Of Gold most pure and line ? 

With gemmes why doe you shine ? 

They, neighbours to your eyes, 
Shew but like Phttpher, when the Sunnt doth rise. 

I would have all my Mislrh parts, 
Owe more to Nature then to Arts, 

I would not woe the dressc, 

Or one whose nights give lesse 

Contentment, then the day. 
Shce's faire, whose beauty onely makes her gay. 

For 'tis not buildings make a Court 

Or pompe, but 'tis the Kings resort : 

If Jupiter downe powrc 

Himselfc, and in a showre 

Hide such bright Majestit 

Lesse then a golden one it cannot be. 


On the uncertainty of Fortune. A Translation. 

LEavc off unfit complaints, and cleere 
From sighs your brest, and from black clouds your brow, 
When the Sunne shines not with his wonted cheere, 
And Fortune throwes an adverse cast for you. 

That Sea which vext with Netui is, 
The merry Eaitwindt will to morrow kisse. 



The Sunne to day rides drousily, 
To morrow 'twill put on a looke more faire, 
Laughter and groaning doe alternately 
Returne, and teares sports neerest neighbours are. 

*Tis by the Gods appointed so 
That good fiite should with mingled dangers flow. 


Who drave his Oxen yesterday, 
Ooth now over the Noblest Romanes reigne. 
And on the Gabiiy and the Cures lay 
The yoake which from his Oxen he had tane. 

Whom Hesperus saw poore and low, 
The mornings eye beholds him greatest now. 

If Fortune knit amongst her play 
But.seriousnesse; he shall againe goe home 
To his old Country Farme of yesterday. 
To scoffing people no meane jest become. 
And with the crowned Axe^ which he 
Had rul'd the World, goe backe and prune some Tree. 
Nay if he want the fuell cold requires. 
With his owne Fasces he shall make him fires. 


In commendation of the time we live under the 
Reign of our gracious K. Charles. 


Urst be that wretch (Deaths Faftor sure) who brought 
Dire Swords into the peaceful! world, and taught 
Smiths, who before could onely make 
The Spade, the Plowshare, and the Rake; 

Arts, in most cruell wise 

Mans life t'epitomize. 





Then men (fond men alas) rid post to th*gravc, 
And cut those threads^ which vet the Fates would save. 
Then Charon sweated at his trade, 
And had a bigger Ferry made, 
Then, then the silver hayre. 
Frequent before, grew rare. 


Then Revenge married to Ambition^ 
Begat blacke Warre^ then Avarice crept on. 
Then limits to each field were strain'd. 
And Terminus a Godhead gain'd. 
To men before was found. 
Besides the Sea, no bound. 


In what Playne or what River hath not beene 
War res story, writ in blood (sad story) seene ? 
This truth too well our England knowes, 
'Twas civill slaughter dy'd her Rose : 
Nay then her Lillie too. 
With bloods losse paler grew. 


Such griefes, nay worse than these, we now should feele, 
Did not just Charles silence the rage of Steele ; 
He to our Land blest peace doth bring. 
All Neighbour Countries envying. 
Happy who did remaine 
Unborne till Charles his reigne/ 


Where dreaming Chimicks is you[r] paine and cost? 
How is your oyle, how is your labour lost ? 

Our Char/eSy blest Alchymist (though strange, 
Beleeve it future times) did change 
The Iron age of old. 
Into an age of Gold. 




Upon the shortnesse of Mans life. 

MArke that swift Arrow how it cuts the ayrc, 
How it out-runncs thy hunting eye, 
Use all perswasions now, and try 
If thou canst call it backe, or stay it there. 

That way it went, but thou shalt find 

No trad of 't left behind. 
Foole 'tis thy life, and the fond Archer^ thou, 

Of all the time thou'st shot away 

He bid thee fetch but yesterday. 
And it shall be too hard a taske to doe. 

Besides repentance, what canst find 

That it hath left behind? 
Our life is carried with too strong a tyde, 

A doubtftiU Cloud our substance beares. 

And is the Horse of all our yeares. 
Each day doth on a winged whirle-wind ride. 

fVee and our Glasse run out, and must 

Both render up our dust. 
But his past life who without griefe can see. 

Who never thinkes his end too neere, 

But sayes to Fame^ thou art mine Heire. 
That man extends lifes naturall brevity. 

This is, this is the onely way 

T* out-live Nestor in a day. 

CVL E 65 


An Answer to an Invitation to 

NUhoby mjr better selfe, forbeare, 
For if thou telst what Camhridgi pleasures are, 
The Schoott-boyes sinne will light on me, 
I shall in mind at least a Truant be, 

Tell mc not how you feed your minde 
With dainties of Phikiopby, 
In Ovids Nut I shall not nnde, 
The Ustc once pleased me. 

tell me not of Logicis diverse cheare, 

1 shall begin to loath our Cramie here. 


Tell mc not how the waves appcare 
Of Cam, or how it cuts the Itarned shiert, 

I shall contemne the troubled Thamn, 
On her chicfc Ha/iday, even when her streames, 

Are with rich folly guiided, when 

The quondam Dungboat is made gay, 

Just like the bravery of the men, 

And graces with fresh paint that day: 
When th' Citie shines with Flagga and Fagtanis there. 
And Sattin Doublets, seen not twice a yeere. 


Why doe I slay then f I would meet 
Thee there, but plummet! hang upon my feet: 

'Tis my chicfc wish to live with thee, 
But not till I deserve thy company: 

Till then wee'l scorne to let that toy. 

Some forty miles, divide our hearts : 

Write to me, and I shall enjoy, 

Fritndthip, and «/(>, thy better parts. 
Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings, 
Wce'l easely see each other, Lne hath wings, 







At the time of his being 

Kings SchoUer in West- 
minster Schoole, 

by A. Cowlty. 


Printed by yobn Dawson, for Henry 

Seile, and are to be sold at the Tygres 

head in Fleet-street over against 

St. Dunstans-Chxxrch. 1638. 


To the truly Worthy, and 
Noble, Sir Kenelme 



THis latter Age^ the Lees of Tinu^ bath kiownfy 
FeWj that have made both Pallas arts their owne. 
But jouj Gnat Sir^ two Lawrels weare^ and are 
yictorious in Peace^ as well as War. 
Learning by right of Conquest is your owne^ 
And every liherall Art your Captive growne. 
As if neglected Science (for it now 
Wants some defenders) fled for help to you. 
Whom I must follaWy and let this for mee 
An earnest of my future service bee. 
Which I should feare to send you^ did I know 
Your judgement onely^ not your Candor too. 
For fwas a Worke^ stolne (though you*le Justly call 
This Play^ as fond as those) from Catj or Ball, 
Had it beene written since^ 1 should^ I feare^ 
Scarse have abstained from a Philosopher, 
Which by Tradition here is thought to bee^ 
A necessarie Part in Comedie, 
Nor need I tell you this ; each line of it 
Betrafs the Time and Place wherein t*was writ. 
And I could wishy that I might safely say 
To tVReadery that fwas done but tVother day. 
Yet *tis not stuffed with names of Godsy hard wordsy 
Such as the Aietamorphosis affords. 
Nor haCt a part for Robmson^ whom they 
At schooUy account essentiall to a Play, 

\^ The stile is loWy such as you^le easily take 
^ J For what a Swaine might speake^ and a Boy make. 
Take ity as early fruitSy which rare appeare 
Though not halfe ripey but worst of all the yeare. 
And if it please your tasty my Muse will sayy 
The birch which crowned her theny is growne a Bay, 

Yours in all observance, 



The Sc(Bne Sicily. 

The Aftors names. 

o/^ . / I ^^^ qJj f^ij^g Q^ j^ Noble family. 
bpodata J ' 

r» irj r their Children. 

jA^ r two Gent, both in love with Callidora, 
Aphron J 

Clarianay sister to Phtlistus. 




a crabbed old Shepheard. 
his Wife, 
their Daughter. 

Mgon — an ancient Countrey man. 

Bellula — his supposed Daughter. 

Palamon — a young Swaine in love with Hjlaa. 

Alupis — a merry Shepheard. 

Clariand^s Mayd. 

A6Kis I. Scaena I. 

Enter Callidora disguised in mans apparelL 

MAdde feet, yce have beene traytours to your Master: 
Where have you lead me? sure my truant mind 
Hath tai^ht my body thus to wander too ; 
Faintnesse and feare surprize me ; Yee just gods, 
If yee have brought me to this place to scourge 
The folly of my love, (I might say madnesse) 
Dispatch me quickly; send some pittying men 
Or cruell beast to nnd me ; let me bee 
Fed by the one, or let mee feed the other. 
Why are these trees so brave ? why doe they weare 
Such greene and fresh apparell ? how they smile ! 
How their proud toppes play with the courting wind ! ' 
Can they behold me pine and languish here, 
And yet not sympathize at all in mourning? 
Doe they upbraid my sorrowes? can it bee 
That these thick branches never scene before 
But by the Sunne, should learne so much of man ? 
The trees in Courtiers gardens, which are conscious 
Of their guilt Masters statelinesse and pride. 
Themselves would pitty me ; yet these — Who's there ? 

Enter Alupis singing. 


Rise up thou mournfull Swainty 

For *tis hut a folly 

To be melancholy 
And get thee thy pipe againe, 


Conu sing away the day^ 

For 'tis hut a folly 

To be melancholfyy^ 
Let's live here whilst wee may, 



CaL I marry Sir, this fellow hath some fire in him, 
Me thinkes a sad and drowsie shepheard is 
A prodigie in Nature, for the woods 
Should bee as farre from sorrow, as they are 
From sorrowes causes, riches and the like. 
Haile to you swaine, I am a Gentleman 
Driven here by ignorance of the way, and would 
Confesse my selfe bound to you for a curtesie. 
If you would please to helpe me to some lodging 
Where I may rest my selfe. 

Alu, For 'tis hut a folly^ &c. 

CaL Well j if the rest bee like this fellow here ; 
Then I have travel'd fairely now ; for certainly 
This is a land of fooles ; some Colon ie 
Of elder brothers have becne planted here. 
And begot this faire generation. 
Prithee, good Shepheard, tell mee where thou dwelst? 

Alu, For *tis hut a folly^ 6cc. 

Call. Why art thou madde? 

Alu. What if I bee ? 
I hope 'tis no discredit for me Sir ? 
For in this age who is not ? Tie prove it to you, 
Your Citizen hee's madde to trust the Gentleman 
Both with his wares and wife. Your Courtier 
Hee's madde to spend his time in studying postures, 
Cringes, and fashions, and new complements ; 
Your Lawyer hee's madde to sell away 
His tongue for money, and his Client madder 
To buy it of him, since 'tis of no use 
But to undoe men, and the Latine tongue ; 
Your Schollers they are madde to breake their braines. 
Out-watch the Moone, and looke more pale then shee, 
That so when all the Arts call him their Master, 
Hee may perhaps get some small Vicaridge, 
Or be the Usher of a Schoole; but there's 
A thing in blacke called Poet, who is ten 
Degrees in madnesse above these; his meanes 
Is what the gentle Fates please to allow him 
By the death or mariage of some mighty Lord, 
Which hee must solemnize with a new song. 



CaL This feUowes wit amazeth me ; but friend, 
What doe you thinke of lovers ? 

Abi. Worst of all ; 
Is't not a pretty folly to stand thus, 
And sigh, and fold the armes, and cry my Cctlia^ 
My soule, my life, my Calia^ then to wring 
Ones state for present and ones brayne for Sonnets? 

! 'tis beyond the name of Phrenzie. 

CaL What so Satyricke Shephea[r]ds ? I beleeve 
You did not leame these flashes in the Woods ; 
How is it possible that you should get 
Such neere acquaintance with the Citie manners. 
And yet live here in such a silent place, 
Where one would thinke the very name of City 
Could hardly Enter. 

Abi. Why, rie teU you Sir : 
My father dyed, (you force me to remember 
A griefe that deserves teares) and left me young. 
And (if a Shepheard may be said so) rich, 

1 in an itching wantonnesse to see 

What other Swaines so wondred at, the Citie, 
Streight sold my rurall portion (for the wealth 
Of Shepheards is their flockes) and thither went, 
Where whil'st my money lasted I was welcome. 
And liv'd in credit, but when that was gone. 
And the last piece sigh'd in my empty pocket, 
I was contemn'd, then I began to feele 
How dearely I had bought experience. 
And without any thing besides repentance 
To load me, returnM back, and here I live 
To laugh at all those follyes which I saw. 


The merry waves dance up and downe^ and play^ 

Sport is granted to the Sea, 
Birds are the queristers of th^ empty ayrey 

Sport is never wanting there. 
The ground doth smile at the Springs flowry birthy 

Sport is granted to the earth. 



The fire it's cheering flami on high dtth reari^ 

Spert is nevtr wanting there. 
If all the elements, the Earth, the Sea, 

Ayre, and fire, w merry hee ; 
Why is mam mirth so seldtme, and st small, 

IVha is compounded of them all ? 

Cal, You may rcjoyce ; but sighes befit me better. 

Alu. Now on my conscience thou hast lost a Mistris ; 
If it be so, thanke God, and love no more ; 
Or else perhaps she'has burnt your whining letter, 
Or kist another Gentleman in your sight, 
Or else denyed you her glove, or taught at you, 
Causes indeed, which deserve speciall mourning, 
And now you come to talke with your God Cupid 
In private here, and call the Woods to witnesse. 
And all the streames which murmure when they hearc 
The injuries they suffer; I am sorry 
I have been a hindrance to your meditations. 
Farewell Sir. 

Cal. Nay, good Shepheard, you misuke mee. 

Alu. Faith, I am very chary of my health, 
I would be loath to be infected Sir. 

Cal. Thou needest not fcarc ; I have no disease at all 
Besides a troubled mind. 

Alu. Why that's the worst, the worst of all. 

Cal. And therefore it doth challenge 
Your piety the more, you should the rather, 
Strive to be my Physitian. 

Alu, The good Gods forbid it j I turne Physitian ? 
My Parents brought me up more piously, 
Then that I should play booty with a sicknessc, 
Turne a consumption to mens purses, and 
Purge them, worse then their bodyes, and set up 
An Apothecaries shop in private chambers. 
Live by revenew of close^stooles and urinals, 
Deferre off sick mens health from dav to day 
As if they went to law with their disease. 
No, I was borne for better ends, then to send away 
His Majesties subjects to hell so ^t, 


As if I were to share the stakes with Charon. 

Cat Your wit erres much : 
For as the soule is nobler then the body, 
So it's corruption askes a better medicine 
Then is applyed to Gouts, Catarrs, or Agues, 
And that is counselL 

jfbi. So then: I should bee 
Your soules Physitian ; why, I could talke out 
An houre or so, but then I want a cushion 
To thump my precepts into; but tell me 'pray. 
What name besures your disease? 

Cat. A feaver, shepheard, but so farre above 
An outward one, that the vicissitudes 
Of that may seeme but warmth, and coolenesse only ; 
This, flame, and frost. 

jfbt. So; I understand you. 
You are a lover, which is by translation 
A fbole, or a beast, for I'le define you ; you're 
Partly CbanueUon^ partly Salamander^ 
You're fed by th'ayre, and live i'the fire. 

CaL Why did you never love ? have you no softnesse. 
Nought of your mother in you ? if that Sun 
Which scorched me, should cast one beame upon you, 
T'would quickly melt the ice about your heart. 
And lend your eyes fresh streames. 

Alu. Faith, I thinke not; 
I have seen all your beautyes of the Court, 
And yet was never ravisht, never made 
A dolefiill Sonnet unto angry Cupidy 
Either to warme her heart, or else coole mine, 
And no fiure yet could ever wound me so. 
But that I quickly found a remedie. 

CaL That were an art worth learning, and you need not 
Be niggard of your knowledge ; See the Sunne 
Though it have given this many thousand yeares 
Light to the world, yet is as bigge and bright 
As e're it was, and hath not lost one beame 
Of his first glory ; then let charity 
Perswade you to instruct me, I shall bee 
A very thankfull schoUer. 



Alu, I shall : for 'tis both easily taught and learn'd, 

Come sing away the day^ &c. 
Mirth is the only physick. 

CaL It is a way which I have much desired 
To cheate my sorrow with ; and for that purpose 
Would faine turne shepheard, and in rural sports 
Weare my lifes renmant out ; I would forget 
All things, my very name if it were possible. 

Alu. Pray let me learne it first. 

Cal, 'Tis Callidorus. 

Alu, Thanke you; if you your selfe chance to forget it 
Come but to me Tie doe you the same curtesie. 
In the meane while make me your servant Sir, 
I will instruct you in things necessary 
For the creation of a Shepheard, and 
Wee two will laugh at all the world securely, 
And fling jests 'gainst the businesses of state 
Without endangering our eares. 

Comey come away^ 

For Uis but a folly 

To he melancholyy 
Let's live here whiVst we may. Exeunt, 

Enter Palamony Melarnus^ Truga^ Mgon 

Bellulay Hylace. 

Pa, I see I am undone. 

Mel, Come no matter for that, you love my Daughter? 
By Pan ; but come, no matter for that ; you my Hilace ? 

Tru, Nay good Duck, doe not vexe your selfe ; what 
though he loves her ? you know she will not have him. 

Mel, Come, no matter for that ; I will vex my selfe, and 
vex him too, shall such an idle fellow as he strive to entice 
away honest mens children ? let him goe feed his flocks ; but 
alas 1 he has none to trouble him ; ha, ha, ha, yet hee would 
marry my daughter. 

Pa, Thou art a malicious doting man, 
And one who cannot boast of any thing 
But that shee calls thee father, though I cannot 



Number so large a flock of sheepe as thou. 
Nor send so many cheeses to the City, 
Yet in my mind I am an Empcrour 
If but compar'd with thee. 

Tru. Of what place I pray ? 
'Tis of some new discovered Countrey, is't not? 

Pa. Prithee good ffintor if ihou wilt be tailcing, 
Kecpe thy breath in a little, for it smelb 
Worse then a Goat ; yet thou must taike, 
For thou hast nothing left ihec of a woman 
But lust, and tongue. 

Hy/. Shepheard, here's none so txken with your wit 
But you might spare it ; if you be so lavish, 
You'lc have none left another time to make 
The song of tlie forsaken Lover with. 

Pa. Tme dumbe, my lips arc seal'd, seal'd up for ever 
May my rash tong;ue forget to be interpreter. 
And organ of my senses, if you say, 
It bath offended you. 

Hy/. Troth if you make 
Bui that condition, I shall agree to't quickly: 

Mt/. By Pan well said Girle ; what a foole was I 
To suspeit thee of loving him? but come 
Tis no matter for that ; when e're thou art maried 
ric adde ten sheepe more to thy portion. 
For putting this one Jest upon him. 

Mgen. Nay now 1 must needs tell you that your anger 
Is grounded with no reason to niainiaine it, 
Ir you intend your daughter shall not marry htm, 
Say so, but play not with his passion, 
For 'tis inhumane wit which jeeres the wretched. 

MtL Come 'tis no matter for that ; what I doe, I 
I shall not need your counsell. 

Tru. I hope my husband and I have enough wisdomc 
To governe our owne child ; if wc want any 
Twill be to little purpose, I dare say, 
To come to borrow some of you. 

£g. 'Tis very likely pritty Mistris MauHit, 
You with a face lookcs like a winter apple 

I 77 


When 'tis shrunke up together and halfe rotten, 
rde see you hang'd up for a thing to skare 
The Crowes away before He spend my breath 
To teach you any. 

HyL Alas good shepheard ! 
What doe you imagine that I should love you for? 

PaL For all my services, the vertuous zeale 
And constancie with which I ever woed you, 
Though I were blacker then a starlesse night. 
Or consciences where guilt and horror dwell. 
Although splay-legd, crooked, deform*d in all parts, 
And but the Chao*s only of a man ; 
Yet if I love and honor you, humanitie 
Would teach you not to hate, or laugh at me. 

Hy. Pray spare your fine perswasions, and set speeches. 
And rather tell them to those stones and trees, 
'Twill be to as good purpose quite, as when 
You spend them upon me. 

Pa. Give me my finall answer, that I may 
Bee either blest for ever, or die quickly ; 
Delay's a cruell rack, and kils by piece-meales. 

Hy, Then here 'tis, you're an asse, 
(Take that for your incivilitie to my mother) 
And I will never love you. 

PaL You're a woman ; 
A cruell and fond woman, and my passion 
Shall trouble you no more, but when I'me dead 
My angry Ghost shall vex you worse then now 
Your pride doth mee. Farewell. 

Enter Aphron madde^ meeting Palaemon going mt. 

Aph. Nay stay Sir, have you found her f 

Pa, How now? whats the matter? 

Aph, For I will have her out of you, or else 
I'le cut thee into atomes, til the wind 
Play with the threeds of thy torne body. Looke her 
Or I will do't. 

PaL Whom ; or where ? 

Aph. rie tell thee honest fellow \ thou shalt goe 



From me as an Embassador to the Sunne, 
(For men call him the eye of heaven, from which 
Nothing lyes hid) and tell him — doe you marke me — tell him 
From me — that if he send not word where shee is gone, 
— ^I will — ^nay by the Gods I will. 

iC^. Alas poore Gentleman ! 
Sure he hath lost some Mistris ; beautious women 
Are the chiefe plagues to men. 

Trv. Nay, not so shepheard, when did I plague any.^ 

JEpn. How hxxt is he beyond the name of slave, 
That makes his love his Mistris? 

Apb, Mistris? who's that? her Ghost? 'tis shee; 
It was her voyce; were all the flouds, the rivers. 
And seas that with their crooked armes embrace 
The earth betwixt us, I'de wade through and meet her. 
Were all the Alpes heap'd on each others head. 
Were PtUon joyn'd to Oaa^ and they both 
Throwne on Olympus top, they should not make 
So high a wall, but I would scal't and find her. 

Bel, Unhappy man. 

Aph. Tis empty ayre : I was too rude, too saucy. 
And she hath left me ; if shee be alive 
What darknesse shall be thicke enough to hide her? 
If dead, I'le seeke the place which Poets call Elizium^ 
Where all the soules of good and vertuous mortalls 
Enjoy deserved pleasures after death. 
What shovdd I feare ? if there be an Erynnis 
Tis in this brest, if a Tisiphone 
'Tis here, here in this braine are all her serpents; 
My griefe and fury armes me. 

PaL By your leave Sir. 

Apb. Now by the Gods, that man that stops my journey 
Had better have provokt a hungry Lionesse 
Rob'd of her Whelpes, or set his naked brest 
Against the Thunder. Exit Aphron, 

Tru. 'Tis well hee's gone, 
I never could endure to see these madde men. 

Afel. Come no matter for that Enter Alupis 

For now he's gone, here comes another. and Callidorus 

But it's no matter for that neither, 



How now? who has hee brought with him? 

AL Hayle to yee Shepheards, and yee beautious Nymphs, 
I must present this stranger to your knowledge, 
When you*re acquainted well, you'le thanke me for't 

Cat. Blest Masters of these Woods, hayle to you al[l], 
'Tis my desire to be your neighbour here; 
And feed my flocks (such as they are) neere yours, 
This Shepheard tels me, that your gentle nature 
Will be most willing to accept my friendship ; 
Which if yee doe, may all the Sylvan Deitycs 
Bee still propitious to you, may your flocks 
Yearely increase above your hopes or wishes; 
May none of your young lambcs become a prey 
To the rude Wolfe, but play about securely ; 
May dearths be ever exilM from these woods. 
May your fruits prosper, and your mountaine strawberyes 
Grow in abundance, may no Lovers be 
Despis'd, and pine away their yeares of spring : 
But the young men and maides be strucken both 
With equall sympathy. 

Pa, That were a golden time; the Gods forbid 
Mortal Is to bee so happy. 

Mgon, I thanke you; and we wish no lesse to you: 
You are most welcome hither. 

Tru. 'Tis a handsome man, 
rie be acquainted with him; we most heartily 
Accept your company. 

Mel. Come no matter for that; we have enough 
Already who can bcare us company. 
But no matter for that neither; wee shall have 
Shortly no roome left us to feed our flockes 
By one another. 

Alup. What alwayes grumbling? 
Your father and your mother scoulded sure 
Whil'st you were getting ; well, if I begin 
rie so abuse thee, and that publiquely. 

Mel, A rott upon you; you must still be humoured. 
But come, no matter for that ; you're welcome then. 

A I, What, beauties, are you silent ? 
Take notice of him, (pray) your speaking is 



Worth more then all the rest. 

Bill, You'n very welcome. 

Cal. Tlumke you bjTc Nymph, this is indeed a welcome. 

Btil. I never saw, beauty and afi&bility (Salutes her. 

So well conjoyn'd before j if I stay long 
I shall be quite undone. 

^ii. Nay come, put on too. 

HjL You are most kindly welcome. 

Cal. You blesse mee too much ; 
The honour of your lip is entertainment 
Princes might wish for. 

Hyl. Blesse me how hee lookes ! 
And how he talkes; his ktsse was honey too, 
His lips as red and sweet as early cherryes, 
Softer then Bevcrs skins. 

Bel. Blesse roe how I envy her ! 
Would I had had that kisse too ! 

Hji. How his eye shines I what a bright flame it shootes 1 

Bel. How red his cheekes are I so our garden apples 
Looke on that side where the hot Sun salutes them. 

Hyl. How well his haires become him ! 
Just like that starre which ushers on the day. 

Be/l. How fiiire he is ! fotrer then whitest blossomes. 

Trug. They two have got a kisse ; 
Why should I lose it for want of spring i 
You're welcome shepheard. 

j/Ai. Come on : For 'til but a filly, &c. 

7ru. Doe you hcare, you are welcome. 

Aht. Oh I here's another must have a kisse : 

TVb. Goc you're a paltry knave, I, that you are, 
To wrong an ho[n]est woman thus. 

Aht. Why hee shall kisse thee, never feare it, alas I 
I did but jest, he'Ie do't for all this, 
Nay, because I will be a Patron to thee 
rie speake to him. 

Tru. You're a slandering knave, 
And you shall know't, that you shall. 

Al. Nay, if you scould so lowd 
Others shul know it too ; He must stop your mouth. 
Or you'le talke on this three houres ; CalUdarut 

c. II. p 8i 


If you can patiently endure a stinke, 
Or hare frequenCea ere the City Beare-garden, 
Prithee salute this fourescore yearcs, and free me, 
She sayes you're welcome too. 

Cal. I cry you mercy Shepheardessc, 
By Pan I did not see you. 

Tru. If my husband and Alupis were not here 
I'de rather pay him back his kissc againe, 
Then be beholding to him. 

Al. What, thou hast don't ? 
Well if thou dost not dye upon't, hereafter, 
Thy body will agree even with the worst 
And stinking'st ayre in Europe. 

Cal. Nay, be not angry Shepheardesse, you know 
He doth but jest as 'tis his custome. 

Tru. I know it is his custome ; he was alwayes 
Wont to abuse me, like a knave as he is, 
But I'lc endure't no more. 

AL Prithee good Callidorui if her breath 
Be not too bad, goe stop her mouth againe, 
Shc'lc scould till night else. 

Tru. Yes marry will I, that I will, you rascall you» 
I'le teach you to lay your frumps upon mc ; 
You delight in it, doe you P 

Ai. Prithee be quiet, leave but talking to me 
And I will never jeere thee any more, 
We two will be so peaceable hereafter. 

Tru. Well upon that condition. 

Ai. So, I'mc dcliver'd, why how now Ladds? 
What have you lost your tongues? lie have them cry'd, 
Palamen, Aigon, Callidarui, what ? 
Are you all dumbe ? I pray continue so, 
And i'le be merry with my sclfe. 

'T7i better to dance then ting. 
The cause is if you will know it. 
That I to my selft shall bring 

A Poverty 

If ena I grow but a Poet, 


Mgtn. And vet me thinkcs you sing, 

AL O yes, because here's none doe dance, 
And both are better farre then to be sad. 

£^H. Come then let's have a round. 

AL A match ; Palamen whither goe you ? 

Pa, The Gods forbid that I should mock my sclfe, 
Cheate my owne mind, I dance and weepe at once f 
You may: Farewell. Exit. 

Al. 'TIS such a whining ibole ; come, come, Milarmu. 

Mtl. I have no mind to dance ; but come no matter for 
that, rather then breake the squares. — 

Cat. By your leave, foyre one. 

Hil. Would I were in her place. 

Al. Come Hi/ace, thee and I wench I warrant thee. 
You and your wife together. God blcsse you j so — 

F»r 'tit hit a filly, &c. Dana. 

7ru. So there's enough, I'me halfe a weary, 

Mtl. Come no matter for that, 
I have not danc't so much this yeare. 

Al. So farewell, you'le come along with me i 

Cal. Yes, iarewell gentle Swaines. 

Tni, Farewell good Shcpheard, 

StL Your best wishes follow you. 

HyL Pan alwayes guide you. 

MtL It's no matter for that, come away. Exeunt, 

Finis ASus prim. 

Aftus II. Scaena I. 

Enter Demtfhi/f Spadaia, Philiitut^ Clariana. 

DEma. Nay, shee is lost for ever, and her name 
Which us'd to be so comfortable, now 
Is poyson to our thoughts, and to augment 
Our misery paints forth our former happinesse, 

Call'tdora, O my Callidora I 

1 shall ne're sec thee more. 
Spo. If cursed Aphron 

Hath carycd her away, and tryumphs now 
In the destruction of our hoary age 
'Twere better shcc were dead ; 

Dtm. 'Twere better we were all dead j the enjoying 
Of tedious life is a worse punishment 
Then losing of my Daughter ; Oh ! my friends, 
Why have I lived so long f 

Cla, Good Sir be comforted : Brother spcake to them. 

Spo. Would I had dyed, when first I brought thee forth 
My Girle, my best Girle, then I should have slept 
In quiet, and not wept now. 

Phi. I am halfe a statue 
Freeze me up quite yee Gods, and let me be 
My owne sad monument. 

Cla. Alas ! you doe but hurt your selves with weeping ; 
Consider pray, it may be she'le come back, 

Dem. Oh \ never, never, 'tis impossible 
As to call baclc sixteene, and with vaine Rhetoricke 
Pcrswade my lifes fresh Aprill to returne, 
Shee's dead, or else farre worse, kept up by Apbrtn 
Whom if I could but see, me thinkes new bloud 
Would creepe into my veines, and my faint sinewes 
Renew themselves, I doubt not but to find 
Strength enough yet to be revcng'd of Aphron. 

Sp. Would I were with thee, Girle, where ere thou an. 



Cla. For shame good Brother, see if you can comfort them, 
Me thinkes you should say something. 

Phi. Doe you thinke 
My griefes so h'ght ? or was the interest 
So small which I had in her? I a comforter? 
Alas ! she was my wife, for we were married 
In our aficction, in our vowes ; and nothing 
Stopt the enjoying of each other, but 
The thinne partition of some ceremonies. 
I lost my hopes, my expectations. 
My joyes, nay more, I lost my selfe with her; 
You have a son, yet left behind, whose memorie 
May sweeten all this gall. 

Spo. I, we had one. 
But fate's so cruell to us, and such dangers 
Attend a travelling man, that 'twere presumption 
To say we have him ; we have sent for him 
To blot out the remembrance of his sister : 
But whether we shall ever see him here, 
The Gods can only tell, we barely hope. 

Dem, This newes, alas ! 
Will be but a sad welcome to him. 

Phi. Why doe I play thus with my misery ? 
'TIS vaine to thinke I can live here without her, 
lie seeke her where e're she is ; patience in this 
Would be a vice, and men might justly say 
My love was but a flash of winged lightning, 
And not a Vestall flame, which alwayes shines. 
His woing is a complement, not passion. 
Who can if fortune snatch away his Mistris, 
Spend some few teares, then take another choyce. 
Mine is not so; Oh Callidora! 

Cla. Fye Brother, you're a man. 
And should not be shaken with every wind. 
If it were possible to call her back 
With mourning, mourning were a piety, 
But since it cannot, you must give me leave 
To call it folly : 

Phi. So it is; 
And I will therefore shape some other course, 



This dtdefiiU place shall never see me more, 

Vnlesse it see her too in my embraces, 

You sister may retyre unto my Farme, 

Adjoyning to the woods ; 

And my estate I leave for you to manage, 

If I find her, expe£t me there, if not 

Doe you live happier then your Brother hath: 

C/a, Alas ! how can I if you leave me ? but 
I hope your resolutions may be altered. 

P/>, Never, farewell : good Dertuphil, 
Farewell Sp^daia, temper your laments ; 
If I returne we shall againe be happy. 

Spo. You shall not want my prayers, 

Dent. The Gods that pitty Lovers (if there bee any) 
attend upon you. 

Cla. Will you needs goe i 

Ph. I knit delayes; 'twere time I were now ready, 
And I shall sinne if I seeme dull or slow 
In any thing which touches Callidora. 

Dtm. Oh ! that name wounds me ; we'le bearc you company 
A little way, and Clariana looke 
To see us often at your Countrey Farme, 
Wec'le sigh, and grieve together. Extunt. 

EnUr Alupis and Palzmon. 

Alu. Came, ame away, tec. 
Now where are all your sonnets f your rare fancies? 
Could the fine morning musick which you wak'd 
Your Mistris with, prevaile no more then thisi 
Why in the Citie now your very Fidlers 
Good morrow to your worship, will get something, 
Hath she denyed thee quite? 

Pa. Shee hath undone me ; I have plow'd the Sea, 
And begot storming billowes. 

/fl. Can no perswasions move her ? 

Pa. No more then thy least breath can stirre an oalce. 
Which hath this many yeares scorn'd the fierce warres 
Of all the winds. 

/fl. 'Tis a good hearing ; then 


She*le cost vou no more payres of Turtle Doves, 

Nor garlands knit with amorous conceits, 

I doe perceive some ragges of the Court fisishions 

Visibly creeping now into the woods, 

The more hee shewes his love, the more shee slights him. 

Yet will take any gift of him, as willingly 

As Coimtrev Justices the Hens and Geese 

Of their ofiFending neighbours ; this is right ; 

Now if I lov'd this wench I would so handle her, 

Fde teach her what the difference were betwixt 

One who had seene the Court and Citie tricks, 

And a meere shepheard. 

Pa, Lions are tam'd, and become slaves to men. 
And Tygres oft forget the cruelty 
They suckt from their fierce mothers ; but, a woman 
Ah me ! a woman ! — 

JL Yet if I saw such wonders in her Bice 
As you doe, I should never doubt to win her. 

Pa. How pray ? if gifts would doe it, she hath had 
The daintiest Lambes, the hope of all my flock, 
I let my apples hang for her to gather, 
The pamfull Bee did never load my hives. 
With honey which she tasted not. 

AL You mistake me Friend ; I meane not so. 

Pa. How then ? if Poetry would do't, what shade 
Hath not beene Auditor of my amorous pipe? 
What bankes are not acquainted with her prayses? 
Which I have sung in verses, and the sheepheards 
Say they are good ones, nay they call me Poet, 
Although I am not easie to beleeve them. 

AL No, no, no ; that's not the way. 

Pa. Why how? 
If shew of griefe had Rhetorick enough 
To move her, I dare sweare she had beene mine 
Long before this, what day did ere peepe forth 
In which I wept not dulier then the morning ? 
Which of the winds hath not my sighes encreas'd 
At sundry times? how often have I cryed 
Hjlaciy tiylace^ till the docile woods 
Have answered Hylace\ and every valley 



As if it were my Rivall, sounded Hylace. 

AU I, and you were a most rare foole for doing so, 
Why 'twas that poyson'd ail ; Had I a Mistris 
I'de almost beat her, by this light, I would, 
For they are much about your Spaniels nature, 
But whilst you cry deare Hylace^ 6 Hylace! 
Pitty the tortures of my burning heart, 
She le alwayes mince it, like a Citizens wife. 
At the first asking ; though her tickled bloud 
Leapes at the very mention ; therefore now 
Leave off your whining tricks, and take my counselL 
First then be merry ; For *tis hut a folly^ Sic, 

Pal, 'Tis a hard lesson for my mind to learne, 
But I would force my selfe, if that would helpe me I 

Al, Why thou shalt see it will; next I would have thee 
To laugh at her, and mocke her pittifully ; 
Study for jeeres against next time you see her, 
rie goe along with you, and helpe to abuse her, 
Till we have made her cry, worse then e're you did; 
When we have us'd her thus a little while, 
Shee*le be as tame and gentle. — 

Pa, But alas ! 
This will provoke her more. 

AI, He warrant thee : besides, what if it should ? 
She hath refus'd you utterly already. 
And cannot hurt you worse ; come, come, be rul'd ; 
And follow me, we*le put it straight in pradtize. 
For ^tis hut a filfyj Sec, 

Pa, A match ; He try alwayes ; she can but scorne me, 
There is this good in depth of misery 
That men may attempt any thing, they know 
The worst before hand. Exeunt. 

Enter Callidorus. 

How happy is that man, who in these woods 
With secure silence weares away his time ! 
Who is acquainted better with himselfe 
Then others ; who so great a stranger is 
To Citie follyes, that he knowes them not. 



He sits all day upon some mossie hill 

His rurall throne, arm'd with his crooke, his scepter, 

A flowry garland is his country crowne ; 

The gentle launbes and sheepe his loyall subjects, 

Which every yeare pay him their fleecy tribute ; 

Thus in an humble statelinesse and majestic 

He times his pipe, the woods best melody, 

And is at once, what many Monarches are not. 

Both King and Poet. I could eladly wish 

To spend the rest of my unprontable, 

And needlesse dayes in their innocuous sports. 

But then my Either, mother, and my brother 

Recurse unto my thoughts, and straight plucke downe 

The resolution I had built before ; 

Love names Phi/istus to me, and o*th' sudden 

The woods seeme base, and all their harmlesse pleasures 

The daughters of necessity, not vertue. 

Thus with my selfe I wage a warre, and am 

To my owne rest a traytor; I would faine 

Goe home, but still the thought of Aphron frights me. 

How now ? who's here ? 6 'tis faire Hylace 

The grumbling shepheards daughter. Enter Hylace. 

Brightest of all those starres that paint the woods. 

And grace these shady habitations. 

You're welcome, how shall I requite the benefit 

Which you bestow upon so poore a stranger 

With your faire presence ? 

HjL If it be any curtesie, 'tis one 
Which I would gladly doe you, I have brought 
A rurall present, some of our owne apples. 
My father and my mother are so hard, 
They watch'd the tree, or else they had beene more. 
Such as they are, if they can please your tast. 
My wish is crown'd. 

Cal, O you're too kind, 
And teach that duty to me which I ought 
To have perform'd ; I would I could returne 
The halfe of your deserts ! but I am poore 
In every thing but thankes. 

Hj. Your acceptation only is reward 



Too great for mc. 

Cal. How they blush ? 
A man may well imagine they were yours, 
They beare so great a shew of modesty. 

Hyi. O you mock my boldiicsse 
To thrust into your company ; but truly 
I meant no hurt in'i ; my intents were vertuous. 

Cal. The Gods Forbid that I should nurse a thought 
So wicked, thou art innocent I know, 
And pure as Ftnus Doves, or mountaine snow 
Which no foot hath defil'd, thy soule is whiter 
(if there be any possibilitie oft) 
Then that clcere skin which cloathes thy dainty body. 

Hy. Nay my good will deserves not to be jecr'd, 
You know I am a rude and countrey wench. 

Cal. Farrc be it from my thoughts, I sweare I honour 
And love those maiden vertues which adorne you. 

Hy. I would you did, as well as I doe you, 
But the just Gods intend not me so happy, 
And I must be contented — I'me undone. Ent, Bellula 

Here's Bellula; what is she growne my rivall? 

Btll. Blesse me I whom see I i Hylace ? some cloud 
Or friendly mist involve mc. 

Hy. Nay Btlluta ; I see you well enough. 

Cal, Why doth the day start backe i are you so crucll 
To shew us first the light, and having struck 
Wonder into us snatch it from our sight \ 
If Spring crown'd with the glories of the earth 
Appcare upon the heavenly Ram, and streight 
Creepe back againe into a grey-hayr'd frost, 
Men will accuse its forwardnesse. 

Hy. Pray heaven 
Hec be not taken with her ; shee's somewhat laire ; 
He did not speake so long a speech to mee 
Tme sure oft, though I brought him apples. 

Bell. I did mistake my way ; Pray pardon me. 

Hyl. I would you had else. 

Cal. I must thanke fortune then which lead you hither, 
But you can stay a little while and blesse usf 

Bel. Yes (and Love knowes how willingly) alas I 


I shall quite spovle mv garland ere I give it him. 
With hiding it from Hylace^ Pray Pan 
Shee hath not stolne his heart already from him, 
And cheated my intentions. 

Hy. I would faine be going, but if I should leave her, 
It may be I shall give her opportunity 
To winne him from me, for I know she loveth him. 
And hath perhaps a better tongue then I, 
Although I should bee loth to yeeld to her 
In beauty or complexion. 

BilL Let me speake 
In private with you ; I am bold to bring 
A garland to you, *tis of the best flowers 
Which I could gather, I was picking them 
All yesterday. 

CaL How you oblige me to you ! 
I thanke you sweetest. How they flourish still ! 
Sure they grow better, since your hand hath nipt them. 

BelL They will doe, when your brow hath honour'd them. 
Then they may well grow proud, and shine more freshly. 

CaL What perfumes dwell in them ? 
They owe these odours to your breath. 

Hy. Defend me yee good Gods, I thinke he kisses her. 
How long they have beene talking? now perhaps 
Shee's woing him ; perhaps he forgets me 
And will consent, I'le put l)im in remembrance ; 
You have not tasted of the apples yet, 
And they were good ones truly. 

Cah I will doe presently best Hilace, 

Hy, That's some thing yet, would he would speake so 
al waves. 

CaL I would not change them for those glorious apples 
Which give such &me to the Hesperian gardens. 

BelL She hath out-gone me in her present now, 
But I have got a Beechen cup at home 
Curiously graven with the spreading leaves. 
And gladsome burthen of a fruitful vine, 
Which Damoriy the best Artist of these woods 
Made and bestow'd upon me. Fie bring that to morrow 
And give it him, and then Tie warrant her 



She will not goe beyond me. 

Hy, What have you got a chaplet ? 6h ! 
This is I see of BeUula*s composing. 

Bell, Why Hylacei you cannot make a better, 
What flowers 'pray doth it want ? 

CaL Poore soules I pitty them, and the more. 
Because I have not beene my selfe a stranger 
To these love passions, but I wonder 
What they can find in me worth their affection. 
Truly I would feine satisfie them both. 
But can doe neither ; 'tis fates crime, not mine. 

B[e]ll. W[h]ither goe you shepheard ? 

Hyl. You will not leave us will you ? 

CaL Indeed I ought not, 
You have bought me both with your courtesies 
And should divide me. 

Hy. Shee came last to vou. 

Bell, She hath another love. 
And kills Palamon with her cruelty. 
How can shee expeft mercy from another ; 

[CaLI In what a Labarinth doth Love draw mortalU 
And then blindfolds them ! what a mist it throwes 
Upon their senses ! if he be a God 
As sure he is (his power could not be so great else) 
He knowes the impossibiiitie which Nature 
Hath set betwixt us, yet entangles us. 
And laughs to see us struggle. D'yee both love me ? 

Bell, I doe I'me sure. 

Hyl, And I as much as she. 

CaL I pitty both of you, for you have sow'd 
Upon unthankful! sand, whose dry'd up wombe 
Nature denyes to blesse with fruitfuinesse. 
You are both fayre, and more then common graces 
Inhabite in you both, Bellula^s eyes 
Shine like the lampe of Heaven, and so doth HylaceSj 
Hylaces cheekes are deeper dy'd in scarlet 
Then the chast mornings blushes, so are Bellula^Sj 
And I protest I love you both. Yet cannot. 
Yet must not enjoy either. 

BelL You spcake riddles. 



CaL Which times commentarie 
Must only explaine to you ; and till then 
Farewell good Bellulaj Birewell good Hylace^ 
I thanke you both. Exit. 

HjL Alas ! my hopes are strangled. Exit. 

BelL I will not yet despaire : He may grow milder. 
He bade me &rewell first; and lookt upon me 
With a more stedfast eye, then upon her 
When he departed hence : 'twas a good signe ; 
At least I will imagine it to be so, 
Hope is the truest friend, and seldome leaves one. Exit. 

Enter Truga. 

I doubt not but this will move him. 

For they're good apples, but my teeth are gone, 

I cannot bite them ; but for all that though 

He warrant you I can love a yoimg Fellow 

As well as any of them all : I that I can. 

And kisse him too as sweetly. Oh ! here's the mad-man. 

Enter Aphron. 

Ap. Herculesj HerculeSj ho Hercules^ where are you ? 
Lend me thy club and skin, and when I ha' done. 
Be fling them to thee againe, why Hercules? 
Pox on you, are you drunke? can you not answer? 
He travell then without them, and doe wonders. 

Tru. I quake all over, worse then any fitt 
Of the palsie which I have had this forty yeares 
Could make me doe. 

Ap. So I ha' found the plot out, 
First I'le climbe up, on Porter Atlas shoulders. 
And then craule into Heaven, and I 'me sure 
I cannot chuse but find her there. 

Tru. What will become of me if he should see me? 
Truly he's a good proper Gentleman, 
If he were not mad, I would not be so 'fraid of him. 

Ap. What have I caught thee fay rest of all women ? 
Where hast thou hid thy selfe so long from Aphron? 
Aphron who hath beene dead till this blest minute ? 



Tru. Ha, ha, ha, whom doth he take me for ! 

jtp. Thv skin is whiter then the snowy feathers 
Of Leda*5 Swannes. 

Tru. Law you there now, — 
I thought I was not so unhandsome, as thev'd make me. 

Ap. Thy haires are brighter then the Moones, 
Then when she spreads her beames and fills her orbe. 

Trug, Beshrew their heart that call this Gentleman mad, 
He hath his senses He warrant him, about him. 
As well as any fellow of them all. 

Apu. Thy teeth are like two Arches made of Ivory, 
Ofpurest Ivory. 

7 rw. I for those few I have, 
I thinke they're white enough. 

Ap, Thou art as fresh as May is, and thy look 
Is pidture of the Spring. 

Tru, Nay, I am but some fourscore yeares and tenne 
And beare my age well ; yet Alupis sayes 

I looke like January, but Tie teach the knave 
Another tune Fie warrant him. 

Ap, Thy lips are cheryes, let me tast them sweet? 

Tru, You have begd so handsomly. 

Ap, Ha ! yee good Gods defend me ! 'tis a Witch, a Hag. 

^rug. What am I? 

Ap, A witch, one that did take the shape 
Of my best Mistris, but thou couldst not long 
Belye her purenesse. 

Tru, Now he's starke mad againe upon the sudden ; 
He had some sense even now. 

Ap, Thou lookst as if thou wert some wicked woman 
Frighted out of the grave ; defend me, how 
Her eyes doe sinke into their ugly holes. 
As if they were afraid to see the light. 

Tni, I will not be abus'd thus, that I will not. 
My haire was bright even now, and my lookes fresh : 
Am I so quickly changed? 

Ap. Her breath infects the ayre, and sowes a pestilence 
Where c're it comes; what hath she there? 

I I these are apples made up with the stings 
Of Scorpions, and the bloud of Basiliskes ; 



Which being swallowed up, a thousand paines 
£ate on the heart, and gnaw the entrailes out. 

Tru. Thou lyest ; I, that thou do'st, 
For these are honest apples, that they are ; 
I'me sure I gathered them my selfe. 

jtp. From the Stygian tree ; Give them me quickly, or 
I will— 

Tru. What will you doe? pray take them. 

jtp. Get thee gone quickly, from me, for I know thee ; 
Thou art Tisipbone. 

Tru. *Tis false ; for I know no such woman. 
I'me glad I am got from him, would I had 
My apples too, but 'tis no matter though, 
I'le have a better gift for CaUidorus 
To morrow. 

Ap. The fiend is vanisht from me. 
And hath left these behind for me to tast of. 
But I will be too cunning ; Thus Tie scatter them. 
Now I have spoyl'd her plot ; Unhappy hee 
Who finds them. Exit. 

Finis A£fu5 secundi. 


A£tus III. Scaena I. 

Enter Florellus. 

THe Sun five times hath gone his yearly progresse, 
Since last I saw my Sister, and returning 
Biege with desire to view my native S/V/V/V, 
I found my aged parents sadly mourning 
The funerall (for to them it seemes no lesse) 
Of their departed Daughter ; what a welcome 
This was to me, all in whose hearts a veine 
Of marble growes not, easily may conceive 
Without the dumbe perswasions of my teares. 
Yet as if that were nothing, and it were 
A kind of happinesse in misery 
If't come without an army to attend it. 
As I passM through these woods I saw a woman 
Whom her attyre call'd Shepheardesse, but face 
Some disguisM Angell, or a Silvan Goddesse ; 
It struck such adoration (for I durst not 
Harbour the love of so divine a beauty) 
That ever since I could not teach my thoughts 
Another objedl ; In this happy place 
(Happy her presence made it) she appearM, 
And breath'd fresh honours on the smiling trees, 
Which owe more of their gallantry to her 
Then to the musky kisses of the West wind. 
Ha ! sure 'tis she ; Thus doth the Sunne breake forth 
From the blacke curtainc of an envious cloud. 

Enter Alupisy Bellula^ Hylace. 

AL For Uis but a folly^ &c. 
Hyl. Wee did not send for you ; pray leave us. 
Alu. No, by this light, not till I see you cry ; 
When you have shed some penitentiall teares 



For wronging of Pal^mM, there nay be 
A truce concluded betwixt you and me. 

BtH. This is uncivill 
To thrust into our company ; doe you thinke 
That we admire your wit^ pray goe to them 
That doe, we would be private. 

A/. To what purpose? 
You'd aske how many shepheards she hath strooken, 
Which is the properest man? which kisses sweetest? 
Which brings her the best presents? And then tell 
What a fine man wooes you, how reddc his lips are? 
How bright his eyes are ? and what dainty sonnets 
He bath composed in honor of your beauty? 
And then at last, with what rare tricks you foole him? 
These are your learn'd discourses ; but were all 
Men of my temperance, and wisdome too, 
You should wooe us, I, and wooe hardly too 
Before you got us. 

fh. Oh prophanencsse I 
Can hee so rudely spcake to that blest virgin, 
And not be strudccn dumbe? 

Al. Nay, you have both a mind to me ; I know it, 
But I will marry neither ; I come hither 
Not to gaze on you, or extoll your beauty ; 
I come to vex you. 

FU, Ruder yet? I cannot, 
I will not su^r this; madde fellow, is there 
No other Nymph in all these spacious woods, 
To fling thy wildc, and saucie laughter at. 
But her, whom thy great Deity even Pan 
Himselfe would honor, doe not dare to utter 
The smallest accent if not cloath'd with reverence. 
Nay, doe not looke upon her but with eyes 
As humble and submissive as thou wouldst 
Upon the brow of Majesty, when it frownes, 
I speakc but that which duty binds us all to. 
Thou shall not thinlce upon her, no not thinke. 
Without as much respeft and honor to her 
As holy men in superstitious zeale 
Give b) the Images they worship. 
C II. G 


Bill. Oh ! this is the Gentleman courted me th'other day. 
Al. Why? have jaa got a. Pattent to restraine me? 
Or doe you thinke your glorious sute can fr^ht me? 
*T would doe you much more credit at the Theater, 
To rise betwixt the Afls, and looke about 
The boxes, and then cry, God save you Madame, 
Or beare you out in quarreling at an Ordinary, 
And make your oathes become you ; have you shown 
Your gay apparcll every where in townc, 
That you can aSbrd us the sight oft, or 
Hath that Grand Divell whose cclipped sergeant. 
Frighted you out of the City? 

Flo. Your loose jests 
When they are shot at me, I scorne to take 
Any revenge upon them, but ncglcft, 
For then 'tis rashnesse only, but as scone 
As you begin to violate her name, 
Nature and conscience too bids me be angry, 
For then 'tis wickednesse. 

Al. Well, if it be so, 
I hope you can forgive the sinne that's past 
Without the dolcfull sight of trickling teares, 
For I have eyes of pumice ; I'me content 
To let her rest in quiet, but you have given me 
Free leave t'abuse you, on the condition 
You will revenge it only with ncgleil. 
For then 'tis rashnesse only. 

Fh. What are you biting? 
Where did you pick these fragments up of wit. 

AL Where I pay'd deare enough a conscience for them, 
They should be more then fragments by their price, 
I bought them sir, even from the very Merchants, 
I scorn'd to deale with your poorc City pedlers, that sell 
By retayle : But let that passe ; For 'tis but a fillj : 

Fie. Then you have secne the City. 

Al. I and felt it too, I thankc the Divell ; I'me sure 
It suckt up in three yeares the whole estate 
My father left, though he were counted rich, 
A pox of forlome Captaines, piitifiill things. 
Whom you mistake for souldiers, only by 


Their sounding oathes, and a buffe jerkin, and 
Some Histories which they have learn'd by roate, 
Of battailes fought in Persia^ or Polonioy 
Where they themselves were of the conquering side, 
Although God knowes one of the City Captaines, 
Arm'd with broad scarfe, feather, and scarlet breeches. 
When he instruds the youth on Holy dayes. 
And is made sicke with fearfiill noyse of Guns, 
Would pose them in the art Militairy; these 
Were my first Leeches. 

Flo. So, no wonder then you spent so fast. 

AL Pish, these were nothing : 
I grew to keepe your Poets company 
Those are the soakers, they refin'd me first 
Of those grosse humors that are bred by money 
And made me streight a wit, as now you see, 
For *tis tut a fiUj, 

Flo. But hast thou none to fling thy salt upon 
But these bright virgins? 

AU Yes now you are here ; 
You are as good a theame as I could wish. 

Hj. nris best for me to goe, whilst they are talking. 
For if I steale not from Alupis sight, 
He'le follow me all day to vex me. Exit. 

AL What are you vanishing coy Mistris Hylace} 
Nay, Pie be with you streight, but first Pie fetch 
Pahemen^ now if he can play his part 
And leave oflF whining, wee*le have princely sport. 
Well, I may live in time to have the women 
Scratch out my eyes, or else scould me to death, 
I shall deserve it richly: Farewell Sir: 
I have employment with the Damsell gone 
And cannot now intend you. Exit. 

Flo. They're both gone, 
Direfl me now good love, and teach my tongue 
Th*inchantments that thou woo'dst thy Psyche with. 

Bell. Farewell Sir. 

Flo. Oh I be not so cruell. 
Let me enjoy my selfe a little while. 
Which widiout you I cannot. 

G 2 99 


BtU. Pray let me goe, 
To tend my sheepe, there's none that loolccs to them^ 
And if my father misse me, he'le so chide. 

FU. Alas ! thou needest not fcare, for th'Wolfe himselfie 
Though hunger whet the fury of its nature, 
Would learne to spare thy pretty floclcs, and be 
As careful! as the shephcards dog to guard them, 
Nay if he should not. Pan would present be, 
And keepe thy tender lambcs in safety for thee, 
For though he be a God he would not blush 
To be thy servant. 

Bell. Oh ! you're courtly Sir. 
But your fine words will not defend my sheepe. 
Or stop them if they wander ; Let me goe. 

Flo, Are you so fearefuU of your cattels losse? 
Yet so negleftfiill of my perishing, 
(For without you how can I choose but perish f) 
Though I my selfe were most contemptible, 
Yet for this reason only, that I love 
And honour you, I deserve more then they doe. 

Bell. What would you doe, that thus you urge my stay? 

Flo. Nothing I sweare that should ofTend a Saint, 
Nothing which can call up thy maiden bloud 
To lend thy face a blush, nothing which chaste 
And vcrtuous sisters can deny their Brothers, 
I doe confessc I love you, but the fire 
In which "Jove courted his ambitious Mistris, 
Or that by holy men on Altars kindled. 
Is not so pure as mine is ; I would only 
Gaze thus upon thee ; feed my hungry eyes 
Sometimes with those bright tresses, which the wind 
Farre happier then I, playes up and downe in, 
And sometimes with thy cheekcs, those rosy twins ; 
Then gently touch thy hand, and often kist it. 
Till thou thy selfe shoutdst chccke my modesty 
And yceld thy lips, but further, though thou should'st 
Like other maids with weake resistance aske it, 
(Which I am sure thou wilt not) I'de not o£fcr 
Till lawful! Hymen joyne us both, and give 
A licence unto my desires. 


Bffl. Which 1 . ■;. 

Need not bestow much language to dp^Kjse, 
Fortune and nature have Fortiiddeii it;' -" 
When they made me a rude and homcly'.'yrcnch 
You (if your clothes and cariage be not ly»Wi^ 
By state and birth a Gentleman. ;'"- 

Flo. I hope ' -' 

I may without suspition of a boaster 
Say that I am so, else my love were impudence 
For doc you thinke wise Nature did intend 
You for a Shcpheardcssc, when she bestow'd 
Such paines in your creation ? would she fetch 
The perfumes of yirabia for your breath ? 
Or ransack Ptitum of her choycest roses 
X'adorne your cheekes ? would she bereave the rock 
Of coral! for your lips ? and catch two starres 
As they were felling, which she form'd your eyes of? 
Would she her selfe turne work-woman and spinnc 
Threeds of the finest gold to be your tresses? 
Or rob the Great to make one Microcosme? 
And having finisht quite the beauteous wonder, 
Hide it from publique view and admiration ! 
No ; she would set it on some Pyramide, 
^^To be the spcftacle of many eyes : 
^E&nd it doth grieve me that my niggard fortune 
^H^ys'd me not up to higher eminency, 
^HVoi that I am ambitious of such honors 
^^But that through them I might be made more worthy 
To enjoy you. 

Btll. You are for ought I see 
Too great already ; I will cither live 
An undefiled virgin as I am 
Or if I marry, not belye my birth, 
But joyne my selfe to some plaine vertuous shepheard 
(For Callidarui is so, and I will 1 , - , 
be either his or no bodycs.)/ 
Fh. Pray heare me. 

Bell, Alas ! I have Sir, and doe therefore now 
Prepare to answer, if this passion 
Bee love, my fortune bids me to deny you ; 


If lust, my honesty commHnds to scorne you, 
Farewell. ' '•. 

Flo. O stay a. Hftlt ! but two words : she's gone, 
Gone like the gl^Hous Sun, which being sette 
Night creepes.'6sjiihd and covers all ; some way 
I must seelc£'x>ut to win her, or what's easier 
(And the;bI)l\J man himselfe without a guide 
May find). )6me way to dye ; would I had beene 
Borne a'-poore shcpheard in these shady woods. 
Nature is cruell in her benefits 
A/rd. 'when she gives us honey, mingles gall. 
Sbif said that if she married, the woods 
.Should find a husband for her. I will wooe her 
In Sylvan habit, then perhaps she'le love me — 
But yet I will not, that's in vainc ; I will too. 
It cannot hurt to try. Exiu 

Enter Alupis, Palaemon, after them Hylace. 

Al. Nay come, she's just behind us, are you ready ? 
When she scoulds, bee you lowdest, if she cry 
Then laugh abundantly, thus we will vex her 
Into a good conceit of you. 

Pal. rie warrant you \ you have instrudled me enough, 
Shee comes. 

Hyl. Is't possible that Bellula — 

Pal. Fayre creature — 

Hyl. Sure thou wert borne to trouble me, who sent for thee? 

Pa. Whom all the Nymphs (though women use to be 
As you know, envious of anothers beauty) 
Confesse the pride and glory of these woods. 

Hyl. When did you make this speech? 'tis a most neat one 
Goe, get you gone, looke to your rotting cattell, 
You'le never keepe a wife, who are not able 
To keepe your sheepe. 

Al. Good ! she abuses him 
Now 'tis a miracle he doth not cry. 

Pal. Thou whom the starres might envy 'cause they arc 
Outshone by thee on earth. 

Hyl. Pray get you gon, 



Or hold your prating tongue, for whatsoever 
Thou safest, I will not heare a syllable. 
Much lesse answer thee. 

Pa. No; Fie try that streight 
I have a present here — 

Which if you'le give me leave, I shall presume 
To dedicate to your service. 

//jr. You're so cunning, 
And have such pretty wayes to entice me with, 
Come let me see it. 

Pa. Oh ! have you found a tongue ? 
I thought I had not beene worth an answer? 

Hy. How now ; what tricks are these ? 
Give it me quickly, or — 

Pa. Pray get you gon, or hold your prating tongue ; 
For whatsoever thou sayest I will not heare 
A pliable, much lesse answer thee. 

JL Good boy 'faith : now let me come. 

Hy. This is some plot I see, would I were gone, 
I had as lief see the wolfe as this Alupis. 

Al. Here's a fine Ring, I faith, a very pretty one. 
Doe your teeth water at it Damsell ? ha ? 
Why we will sell our sheepe, and oxen, girle. 
Hang them scurvy beasts, to buy you pretty knacks. 
That you might laugh at us, and call us fooles 
And jeere us too, as farre as your wit reaches. 
Bid us be gone, and when we have talkt two houres. 
Deny to answer us; Nay you must stay She offers 

And heare a little more. to be gone. 

Hy. Must I ? are you 
The master of my businesse ? I will not. 

Al. Faith but you shall ; heare therefore and be patient. 
rie have thee made a Lady, yes a Lady, 
For when thou'st got a chaine about thy necke 
And comely bobes to dandle in thine eares; 
When thou'st perfum'd thy haire, that if thy breath 
Should be corrupted, it might scape unknowne. 
And then bestow'd two houres in curling it. 
Uncovering thy breast hithe[r], thine armes hither. 
And had thy Fucus curiously lay'd on; 



Thou*dst be the finest proud thing, He warrant thee 
Thou would*st outdoe them all. So, now goe thee to her 
And let me breathe a little ; For *tis but a foll% ice. 

Hy. Oh ! is*t your turne to speake againe r no doubt 
But we shall have a good oration then, 
For they call you the learned shepheard ; well 
This is your love I see. 

Pa. Ha, ha, ha, 
What should I love a stone ? or wooe a pidture ? 
Alas 1 I must be gone, for whatsoc're 
I say, you will not heare a syllable 
Much lesse answer; goe, you thinke you are, 
So singularly handsome, when alas. 
Gal/ay Menalca*s daughter, Bellula^ 
Or Amaryllis overcome you quite. 

Hy. This is a scurvy fellow ; He fit him for't. 
No doubt they are ; I wonder that your wisdome 
Will trouble me so long with your vaine suite. 
Why doe you not wooe them? 

Pa. Perhaps I doe; 
Pie not tell you, because you'le envy them. 
And alwayes be dispraising of their beauties. 

Hy. It shall appeare I will not, for Tie sooner 
Embrace a Scorpion, then thee, base man. 

Pa. Ha, ha, ha. 
Alupis do'st thou heare her ? she'le cry presently. 
Doe not despaire yet girle, by your good carriage 
You may recall me still ; some few entreatyes 
Mingled with teares may get a kisse perhaps. 

Hy. I would not kisse thee for the wealth of Sicily 
Thou wicked perjur'd Fellow. 

Pal. Alupis, 6h ! 
We have incenst her too much ! how she lookes ? 
Prithee Alupis helpe me to intreate, 
You know we did but jest, deare Hylace, 
Alupisy prithee speake, best, beauteous Hylace^ 
I did but doe't to try you, pray forgive me. 
Upon my knees I begge it. 

Al. Here's a pretious foole. 

Hyl. Do*st thou still mock me ? hast thou found more wayes? 



Thou nccd'st not vex thjr wit to move my hate, 

Sooner the Sunne and starres shall shine together. 

Sooner the Wolfe make peace with tender Tambes 

Then I with thee ; thou'rt a disease to me 

And wound'st my eyes. Exit. 

PaL Eternal! night involve me ! if there be 
A punishment, (but sure there is not any) 
Greater then what her anger hath inflidled. 
May that fidl on me too? how have I fool'd 
Away my hopes? how have I beene my selfe 
To my owne selfe a theefe? 

AL I told you this. 
That if she should but frowne, you must needs fidl 
To your old tricks againe. 

Pa. Is this your art ? 
A lovers ciu^e upon it ; Oh ! Alupts 
Thou hast done worse then murthered me : for which 
May all thy flocks pine and decay like me, 
May thy curst wit hurt all ; but most its Master, 
May'st thou (for I can wish no greater ill) 
Love one like me, and be, like me, contemned. 
Thou 'ast all the darts my tongue can fling at thee. 
But I will be reveng'd some other way 
Before I dye, which cannot now be long. 

Alu. Poore Shepheard, I begin to pitty him. 
rie see if I can comfort him ; PaUtmon^ — 

Pal. Nay, doe not follow me, griefe, passion 
And troubled thoughts are my companions. 
Those I had rather entertaine then thee. 
If you choose this way let me goe the other. 
And in both parts distracted error, thee 
May revenge quickly meet, may death meet me. Exit. 

Alu. Well, I say Pan defend me from a lover 
Of all tame mad-men certainly they're the worst, 
I would not meet with two such creatures more 
For any good, they without doubt would put me. 
If it be possible into a fit of sadnesse. 
Though it Be but a folly^ Sec. 
Well ; I must find some plot yet to salve this 
Because I have engaged my wit in the businesse, 



And 'twould be a great sca[n]dall to the Citie 
If I who have spent my meanes there, should not be 
Able to cheate these shepheards. How now, how now, 
Have we more distressed lovers here? Enter Aphron. 

Aph. No, I'me a madde man. 

Al. I gave a shrewd ghesse at it at first sight 
I thought thee little better. 

Aph. Better? why? 
Can there be any better then a mad-man ? 
I tell thee, I came here to be a mad-man, 
Nay, doe not disswade me from't, I would bee 
A very Madman. 

AL A good resolution I 
'Tis as gentile a course as you can take, 
I have knowne great ones have not beene asham'd oft, 
But what cause pray drove you into this humour ? 

Aph, Whv a Mistris, 
And such a beauteous one — do'st thou see no body ? 
She sits upon a throne amongst the starres 
And outshines them, looke up and bee amazed 
Such was her beauty here, — sure there doe lye 
A thousand vapours in thy sleepy eyes, 
Do'st thou not see her yet ? nor yet, nor yet ? 

Alu. No in good troth. 

Aph. Thou'rt dull and ignorant. 
Not skill'd at all in deepe Astrology. 
Let me instrudl thee ? 

Alu. Prithee doe, for thou 
Art in an admirable case to teach now. 

Ap. rie shew thee first all the ccelestiall signes. 
And to begin, looke on that horned head. 

AL Whose is't? Jupiters? 

Ap. No, 'tis the Ramme ! 
Next that, the spacious Bull fils up the place. 

AL The Bull ? 'tis well, the fellowes of the Guard 
Intend not to come thither ; if they did 
The Gods might chance to lose their beefe. 

Ap. And then, 
Yonder's the signe of Gemini^ do'st see it? 

Alu. Yes, yes, I see one of the zealous sisters 



Minted in friendship with a holy Brother 
To beget Reformations. 

Ap. And there sits Capricorne. 

AL A Welchman is*t not ? ^ 

Ap. There Cancer creepes along with gouty pace, 
As if his feet were sleepy, there, Doe you marke it ? 

AL I, I, Alderman-like a walking after dinner, 
His paunch orechargd with capon and with white broth. 

Ap. But now, now, now, now, gaze eternally 
Hadst thou as many eyes as the blacke night 
They would be all too little ; seest thou Firgo ? 

AL No by my troth, there are so few on earth, 
I should be loth to sweare there's more in heaven, 
Then onely one. 

Ap. That was my Mistris once, but is of late 
Translated to the height of deserv'd glory, 
And addes new ornaments to the wondjring heavens. 
Why doe I stay behind then, a meere nothing 
Without her presence to give life and being? 
If there be any hill whose lofty top 
Nature hath made contiguous with heaven, 
Though it be steepe, rugged as Neptunes brow, 
Though arm'd with cold, with hunger, and diseases, 
And all the other souldiers of misery, 
Yet I would climbe it up, that I might come 
Next place to thee, and there be made a starre. 

AL I prithee doe, for amongst all the beasts 
That helpe to make up the ccelestiall signes 
There's a Calfe wanting yet. 

Ap. But stay — 

AL Nay, I have learn'd enough Astrology. 

Ap. Himger and faintnesse have already seaz'd me, 
*Th a long journey thither, I shall want 
Provision ; canst thou helpe me, gentle shepheard ? 
And when I am come thither I will snatch 
The Crowne of Ariadne^ and fling't downe 
To thee for a reward. 

AL No doubt you will; 
But you shall neea no victuals, when you have ended 
Your toylesome journey, kill the Ram vou talke of, 
And feed your selfe with most celestial! mutton. 



Ap. Thou'rt in the right, if they deny me that 
rie pluck the Beare downe from the Artique Pole, 
And drowne it in those waters it avoids, 
And dares not touch ; I'le tugge the Hyades 
And make them to sinke downe in spight of Nature \ 
rie meet with Charles his Wayne, and overturnc it 
And breake the wheeles oft, till Bdotes start 
For feare, and grow more slow then e're he was. 

AL By this good light he'le snufFe the Moone anon, 
Here's words indeed would fright a Conjurer 
'Tis pitty that these huge Giganticke speeches 
Are not upon the stage, they would doe rarely 
For none would understand them, I could wish 
Some Poet here now, with his table-booke. 

Ap. rie cuflfc with Pollux^ and out-ride thee, Castor^ 
When the fierce Lyon roarcs Tie plucke his heart out 
And be calPd Cordelion ; Tie grapple with the Scorpion, 
Take his sting out and fling him to the earth. 

AL To me good Sir, 
It may perhaps rayse me a great estate 
With shewing it up and downe for pence apiece. 

Ap. Alcides freed the earth from savadge monsters, 
And I will free the heavens and bee call'd 
Don Hercules Alcido de secundo. 

AL A brave Castilian name. 

Ap. 'Tis a hard taske. 
But if that fellow did so much by strength, 
I may well do't arm'd both with love and fury. 

Alup. Of which thou hast enough. 

Aph. Farewell thou ratte. 
The Cedar bids the shrub adiew. 

AL Farewell 
Don Hercules Alcido de secundo. 
If thou scar'st any, 'twill be by that name. 
This is a wonderfull rare fellow, and 
I like his humor mightily — who's here ? 

Enter Truga. 

The Chronicle of a hundred yeares agoe I 

How many crowes hath she outliv'd ? sure death 

Hath quite forgot her ; by this Memento mors 

1 08 


I must invent some trick to heipe PaLtmon. 

Tru. I am going againe to CallidoruSy 
But I have got a better present now, 
M7 owne ring made of good Ebony, 
Which a yong handsome shepheard bestowM on me 
Some fourescore years agoe, then they all lov*d me, 
I was a handsome Lasse, I wosse in those dayes. 

jfL I so thou wert Fie warrant ; here's good signe oft 
Now De begin the worke, Reverend Truga^ 
Whose very Autumne shewes how glorious 
The spring-time of your youth was — 

Tru. Are you come 
To put your mocks upon me ? 

AL I doe confesse indeed my former speeches 
Have beene too rude and saucy; I have flung 
Madde jests too wildly at you \ but considering 
The reverence which is due to age, and vertue, 
I have repented, will you see my teares? 
And beleeve them ? Oh for an onyon now ! 
Or I shall laugh alowd ; ha, ha, ha ! Aside. 

Tru. Alas good soule I doe forgive you truly ; 
I would not have you weepe for me, indeed 
I ever thought you would repent at last. 

Al. You might well. 
But the right valewing of your worth and vertue 
Hath turn'd the folly of my former scorne 
Into a wiser reverence, pardon me 
If I say love. 

Tru. I, I, with all my heart. 
But doe you speake sincerely? 

A I. Oh ! it grieves me 
That you should doubt it, what I spoke before 
Were lyes, the off-^ring of a foolish rashnesse, 
I see some ^arks still of your former beauty. 
Which spight of time still flourish. 

Tru. Why, I am not 
So old as you imagined, I am yet 
But fourescore yeares. Am I a January now? 
How doe you thinke? I alwayes did beleeve 
You*d be of another opinion one day ; 
I know you did but jest. 



Al. Oh no, oh no, (I sec it takes) AtUU, 

How you bcly your age — for — let me see — 
A man would take you — let me see — for — 
Some forty yeares or thereabouts (I meane foure hundred) 
Not a jot more I sweare. Atidt. 

Tru. Oh no ! you flatter me. 
But I looke something fresh indeed this morning. 
I should please Caliidorus mightily. 
But rie not goe perhaps ; this fellow is 
As handsome quite as he, and I perceive 
He loves me hugely, I protest I will not Aside. 

Have him grow madde, which he may chance to doe 
If I should scorne him. 

Al. I have something here 
Which I would faine reveale to you, but dare not 
Without your licence. 

Tru. Doe in Pant name, doe ; now, now. 

Al. The comely gravity which adorncs your age, 
And makes you still sceme lovely, hath so strucken me — 

Tru. Alas good souic ! I must secme coy at first, 
But not too long, for feare I should quite lose him. 

Al. That I shall perish utterly, unlcsse 
Your gentle nature hclpc me. 

Tru. Alas good Shepheard ! 
And in troth I faine would heipe you 
But I am past those vanities of love. 

Al. Oh no! 
Wise nature which preserv'd your life till now 
Doth it because you should enjoy these pleasures 
Which doc belong to life, if you deny me, 
I am undone. 

Tru. Well you should not win me 
But that I am loath to be held the cause 
Of any young mans ruine, doe not thinke it 
My want of chastity, but my good nature 
Which would see no one hurt. 

Al. Ah pretty soule I Aside. 

How supple 'tis like wax before the Sun ! 
Now cannot I chuse but kisse her, there's the plague of't, 
Let's then joyne our hearts, and seaJc them with a kisae. 

Tru. Well, let us then : 


Twere incivility to be your debtor, 

lie give you back againe your kisse, sweetheart, 

And come in th'aftcrnoone, I'le see you ; 

My husband will be gone to sell some kine, 

And Hyla<e tending the shecpe, till then 

Farewell good Duck {Ofirs to got.) 

But doe you hearc, because you shall remember {Tumtt 

To come rie give thee here this Ebon ring back.) 

But doc not weare it, lest my husband chance 

To scc't : Farewell Duck. 

jfl. Lest her husband chance 
To scc't ; she cannot deny this, here's enough ; 
My Scccnc of love is done then ; is she gone ? 
ric call her back ; ho Truga j Truga h6 : 

Tn. Why doc you call me Duck? 

AI. Only to aske one foolish question of thee : 
Ha'n't you a husband ? 

ITm. Yes, you know I have. 
AL And doe you love him ? 
Tru. Why doe you aske ? I doe. 
Jl. Yet you can be content to make him cuckold? 

Tni. Rather then to sec you perish in your flames. 

AI. Why art thou now two hundred ycares of age, 
Yet hast no more discretion but to thinke 
That 1 could love thee ? ha, ha, were't mine 
I'de sell thee to some gardincr, thou wouldst serve 
To scare away the ihceves as well as crowes, 

Tru. Oh, you're dispos'd to jest I sec, Farewell. 

AI. Nay, I'me in very earnest ; 1 love you ? 
Why thy ^cc is a vizard. 

Trug. Leave off these tricks, I shall be angry else. 
And take away the favours I bestow'd. 

AL 'Tis knownc that thou hast eyes by the holes only, 
Which are crept farther in, then thy nose out. 
And that's almost a yard ; thy quarreling teeth 
Of such a colour are, that ihcy themselves 
Scare one another, and doe stand at distance. 
Thy skin hang^ loose as if it fear'd the bones 
(For flesh thou hast not) and is growne so black 
That a wildc Centaure would not meddle with thee. 
To conclude, Nature made thee when she was 


Only disposM to jest, and length of time 
Hath made thee more ridiculous. 

Tru, Base villaine, is this your love ? 
Give me my ring againe? 

AL No, no ; soft there : 
I intend to bestovir it on your husband ; 
He*Ie keepe it better farre then vou have done. 

Trug. What shall I doe f Alupis^ good Alupis^ 
Stay but a little while, pray doe but heare me. 

AL No, Pie come to you in the afternoone 
Your husband will be selling of some kine 
And Hylace tending the sheepe. 

Tru. Pray heare me, command me anything 
And be but silent of this, good Alupis ; 
Hugh, Hugh, Hugh. 

AL Yes, yes, I will be silent, 
rie only blow a trumpet on yon hill. 
Till all the countrey swaines are flockt about me. 
Then shew the ring, and tell the passages 
'Twixt you and me. 

Trug. Alas I I am undone. 

AL Well now 'tis ripe j I have had sport enough 
Since I behold your penitentiall teares 
rie propose this to you, if you can get 
Your Daughter to be married to Palamon 
This day, for Tie allow no longer time ; 
To morrow Tie restore your ring, and sweare 
Never to mention what is past betwixt us, 
If not — you know what followes — take your choyse. 

Tru, ric doe my best endevour. 

AL Goe make hast then. 
You know your time's but short, and use it well : 
Now if this faile the Divel's in all wit. Exit Truga. 

lie goe and thrust it forward, if it take, 
rie sing away the day^ 
For *tis but a folly 
To he melancholly^ 
Let's live here whilst wee may, Exit^ 

Finis ASius Tertii, 

Affcus nil. Scaena I. 

Enter Callidorusj Bellula^ Florelluu 

CAL Pray follow me no more, me thinks that modesty 
Which is so lively painted in your face 
Should prompt your maiden heart with feares and blushes 
To trust your selfe in so much privatnesse 
With one you know not. 

BiL I should love those feares 
And call them hopes, could I perswade my selfe, 
There were so much heate in you as to cause them ; 
Prithee leave me ; if thou dost hope successe 
To thine owne love, why interrupt'st thou mine? 

Fh, If love cause you 
To follow him, how can you angry bee? 
Because love forces me without resistance 
To doe the same to you? 

BilU Love should not grow 
So subtill as to play with arguments. 

Flo. Love should not be an enemy to reason. 

CaL To love is of it selfe a kind of Folly, 
But to love one who cannot render back 
Equall desire, is nothing else but madnesse. 

BelL Tell him so; 'tis a lesson he should learne. 

Flo^ Not to love is oft selfe a kind of hardnesse. 
But not to love him who hath alwayes woo'd you 
With chast desires, is nothing lesse then tyranny. 

Bell. Tell him so; 'tis a lesson he should learne. 

Call. Why doc you follow him that flyes from you ? 

FU. Why doc you fly from him that foUowes you ? 

BelL Why doc you follow ? Why doe you fly from me ? 

Call. The Fates command me that I must not love you. 

Fh. The Fates command me that I needs must love you. 

ciL H 113 


Bell, The Fates impose the like command on me, 
That you I must, that jrou I cannot love. 

Flo. Unhappy man ! when I begin to cloath 
My love with words, and court her with perswasions. 
She stands unmov'd, and doth not cleare her brow 
Of the least wrinkle which sate there before \ 
So when the waters with an amorous noyse 
Leape up and downe, and in a wanton dance 
Kisse the dull rocke, that scornes their fond embraces, 
And darts them back; till they with terror scattered. 
Drop downe againe in teares. 

Bell, Unhappy woman I 
When I begin to shew him all my passion, 
He flyes from me, and will not cleare his brow 
Of any cloud which covered it before ; 
So when the ravishing Nightingale hath tun'd 
Her mournfull notes, and silenc'd all the birds. 
Yet the deafe wind flirts by, and in disdaine 
With a rude whistle leaves her. 

Cal, We arc all three 
Unhappy ; borne to be the proud example 
Of Loves great God-head, not his God-like goodnesse. 
Let us not call upon our selves those miseries 
Which love hath not, and those it hath beare bravely. 
Our desires yet are like some hidden text, 
Where one word seemes to contradift another. 
They are Loves nonsence, wrapt up in thicke clouds 
Till Fate be pleas'd to write a Commentary, 
Which doubtlcsse 'twill ; till then [let] us endure, 
And sound a parlee to our passions. 

Bell, We may joyne hands though, may we not? 

Flo, We may, and lips too, may we not ? 

Bell, We may \ come let's sit downe and talke. 

Cal, And looke upon each other. 

Flo, Then kisse againe. 

Bell, Then looke. 

Call, Then talke againe. 
What are we like ? the hand of Mother Nature 
Would be quite pos'd to make our simile. 

Flo. We are the Trigon in Loves Hemisphere. 



Bit, Wc are three strings on f^enus dainty*st Lute, 
Where all three hinder one anothers musick, 
Yet all three jojrne and make one harmony. 

Call. We are three flowers of f^enus dainty garden, 
Where all three hinder one anothers odor. 
Yet all three joyne, and make one nosegay up. 

Flo. Come let us kisse againe. 

Bell, And looke. 

Call. And talke. 

Flo. Nay rather sing, your lips arc Natures organs, 
And made for nought lesse sweet then harmony. 

Call. Pray doe. 

Bell. Though I forfeit 
My little skill in singing to your wit, 
Yet I will do't, since you command. 


// is a punishment to love^ 
And not to love a punishment doth prove ; 

But of all paines there^s no such paine^ 
As *tis to lovey and not be lov^d againe. 

Till sixteene parents we obey^ 
After sixteene^ men steale our hearts away : 

How wretched are we women growne^ 
Whose willsj whose mindsy whose hearts are ne^re our owne ! 

Call. Thanke you. 

Flo. For ever be the tales of Orpheus silent. 
Had the same age seene thee, that very Poet, 
Who drew all to him by his harmony. 
Thou would'st have drawne to thee. 

Cal. Come shall we rise ? 

Bell. If it please you, I will. 

Call. I cannot chuse 
But pitty these two Lovers, and am taken 
Much with the serious trifles of their passion. 
Let's goe and see, if we can breake this net 
In which we all are caught ; if any man 
Aske who we are, we'le say we are Loves riddle. Exeunt. 

H 2 115 


Enter Mgtn, Palanun, /tiu^t. 

Pa. Thou art my better Genius, honest MpH^ 

AL And what am I f 

Pu, My sclfc, my soule, my friend, 
Let me hu^e thee Ahph, ana thee £gen. 
Thee for inventing it, thee for putting it 
In a£l ; But doe you thinlce the plot will hold \ 

Ah. Hold? why I'le warrant thee it shall hold, 
Till we have ty'd you both in wedlock fast. 
Then let the bonds of Matrimonie hold you 
If 'twill, if that will not neither, I can tell you 
What will I'me sure ; A Halter. 
Thtn sing, Scc. — 

£ean. Come, shall wc knock ? 

AL I doe; For 'tis, ice— 

jEgan. Ho Truga ; who's within there ? 

AL You, fVinter, Ho, you that the grave expc£led 
Some hundred yeares agoc, you that intend 
To live till you turne Skeleton, and make 
All men aweary of you but Physitians, 
Pox on you, will you come. 

Enter Truga. 

Tru. I come, I come, who's there ? who's there ? 

Al. Oh, in good time, 
Arc you crawl'd here at last i what are you ready 
To give your Daughter up \ the time makes hast 
Looke here, doe you know this ring f 

Tru. Harke aside I pray, 
You have not told these, have you ? 

AL No good Duck, 
Only I told them that your mtnd was alttred, 
And that you lik'd Pauemtn, so we three 
Came here to plot the mcanes. 

Tru. So, so, you're welcome 
Will you goe in and talke about itf Extunt. 

1 16 


Enter Hylace. 

HyL I wonder why my mother should invite, 
Alupis and PaLtmon into th' house : 
Shee is not of my mind, nay, not the mind 
Which she her selfe was of, but yesterday, 
Besides as soone as they came in, she bid me 
To get me gone, and leave them there in private, 
By your good favour Mother, I must be 
For this time disobedient ; here He hearken. 

Enter Truga^ Palamotiy Mgon^ Alupis. 

JEgm. Come He tell you, 
You know your husband hath refused PaLemon 
Because his meanes were not unequall only 
To his desires, but to your Daughters portion. 
To salve this grand exception of Melamus 
I'le promise that Pakemon shall be made 
My heire, 

Tru. Alas he knowes you have a Daughter ! 

Mg, It is reported she is falne in love 
With the new shepheard, for which cause Tie seeme 
To be incenst most sharply, and forsweare 
£'re to acknowledge her for child of mine. 

Tru. *Tis very well; 
It Aleves me truly that Palamon should — 

aU Perish in his owne flames ; is't not so Truga ? 
I know you're gentle; and your peevish Daughter 
Had not her cruelty from you, good soule. 

Pa. Why doe we stay ? Each minute that we lose to 
you is only 
A minute, but to me a day at least. 
Why are we not now seeking of Melamus ? 
Why is he not yet found ? alas, that's nothing, 
Me thinkes he should have given consent e're this; 
Why are not I and beauteous Hylace 
Married together? 

HyL Soft good hasty Lover, 
I shall quite breake the neck of your large hopes. 
Or Fme mistaken much. 



Mg. Come let's be gone 
Truga^ Farewell. Be silent and assistant. 

Ai. Or else 70U know what I have ; goe, no more. 

Tru. l*Ie warrant you : I am not to be taught 
At this age, I thanke Pauy in such a bustnesse. 
Farewell all. Exr\ 

Ah Ceme sing, &c. 

Hy. I know not whether griefc or else amazement 
Seazcth me most, to see my aged Mother 
Grow so unnaturall ; I feine would weepe, 
But when I thinke with what an unfear'd blow 
I shall quite dash their cunning, I can hardly 
Bridle in laughter, Fate helps the innocent, 
Although my Mother's false, the Gods are true, E 

Enttr Clariana and her Maid. 

Cla. Did you command the servants to withdraw ? 

M. I did forsooth. 

Cla. And have you shut the doorcs ? 

Af. Yes. 

CI. Is there none can over-heare our talke ? 

M. Your curious enquiry much amazcth me. 
And I could wish you would excuse my boldncsse 
If I should aske the reason. 

CI. Thou knowest well 
That thou hast found me alwayes liker to 
Thy Kinswoman then Mistris, thai thy brest 
Has beene the Cabinet of all my secrets, 
This I tell thee, not as an exprobration, 
But because I must require thy ^ith 
And counscU here. And therefore prithee swcare — 

M. Sweare ? to doe what f 

CI. To be more silent thenithe dead of night. 
And to thy power to helpc me. 

M. Would my power 
To assist you were as ready as my will, 
And for my tongue that Mistris Tie condemne 
Unto perpetuall silence, ere it shall 
Betray the smallest word that you commit to't. 
By all— 


CL Nay doe not sweare, I will not wrong thy vertue 
To bind it with an oath, He tell thee all; 
Doth not my face seeme paler then 'twas wont ? 
Doth not my eye looke as it borrowed flame 
From my fond heart ; could not my frequent weepings, 
My sudden sighes, and abrupt speeches tell thee 
What I am growne? 

M. You are the same you were, 
Or else my eyes are lyars. 

CL No, Pme a wretched Lover; could*st thou not 
Read that out of my blushes ? fie upon thee ; 
Thou art a novice m Loves schoole I see ; 
Trust me I envy at thy ignorance, 
That canst not find out Cupids chara£lers 
In a lost Mavd, sure thou didst never know him. 

M. Would you durst trust me with his name, 
Sure he had charmes about him that might tempt 
Chast Votaries, or move a Scythian rock 
When he shot fire into your chaster breast. 

CL I am asham'd to tell thee, prithee ghesse him. 

M* Why *tis impossible. 

CL Thou saw'st the gentleman whom I this morning 
Brought in to be my guest. 

M. Yes, but am ignorant, who, or from whence he is. 

CL Thou shalt know all ; 
The freshnesse of the morning did invite me 
To walke abroad, there I began to thinke 
How I had lost my Brother, that one thought 
Like circles in the water begat many, 
Those and the pleasant verdure of the fields 
Made me forget the way, and did entice me 
Farther than either feare or modesty 
Else would have suffred me, beneath an oake 
Which spread a flourishing Canopy round about. 
And was it selfe alone almost a wood, 
I foimd a Gentleman distra£ted strangely. 
Crying alowd for either food, or sleepe. 
And knocking his white hands against the ground. 
Making that groane like me, when I beheld it, 
Pitty, and feare, both proper to us women, 



Drave 017 feet backe farre swifter then thejr went, 
When I came home, I tooke two servants with me 
And fetchM the gentleman, hither I brought him, 
And with such cheare as then the house afforded. 
Replenished him, he was much mended suddenly. 
Is now asleepe, and when he wakes I hope 
Will find his senses perfcft. 

M, You did shew 
In this, what never was a stranger to you. 
Much piety ; but wander from your subject ; 
You have not yet discovered, who it is 
Deserves your love. 

CL Fy, Fy, how dull thou art. 
Thou dost not use in other things to be so ; 
Why I love him ; His name I cannot tell thee ; 
For 'tis my great unhappinesse to bee 
Still ignorant of that my selfe. He comes, 
Looke, this is hee, but doe not grow my rivall If thou canst [c]huse« 

M. You need not, fear't forsooth. Enter Apbr9n. 

CL Leave me alone with him ; withdraw. 

M, I doe. Exit Maid. 

Ap. Where am I now ? under the Northerne Pole 
Where a perpetuall winter binds the ground 
And glazeth up the flouds ? or where the Sun 
With neighbouring rayes bakes the divided earth. 
And drinkes the rivers up ? or doe I sleepe ? 
Is't not some foolish dreame deludes my fancy ? 
Who am I ? I begin to question that. 
Was not my countrey Sicily? my name 
Caird Aphron^ wretched Aphron ? 

Cla. Yec good Gods 
Forbid ; is this that man who was the cause 
Of all the griefe for CaUidora^s losse ? 
Is this the man that I so oft have curst? 
Now I could almost hate him, and me thinkes 
He is not quite so handsome as he was ; 
And yet alas he is, though by his meanes 
My Brother is gone from me, and heaven knowes 
If I shall see him more, Foole as I am, 
I cannot chuse but love him. 


Ap. (Jheatc mc not good eyes. 
What woman, or what Angel doe I 
Oh stay, and let me worship c'rc thou goest, 
Whether thou beest a Goddesse which thy beauty 
Commands me to beleeve, or else some mortall 
Which 1 the rather am induc'd to thinke. 
Because 1 know the Gods all hate me so, 
They would not looke upon me. 

CL Spare these titles 
I am a wretched woman, who for pitty 
(Alas that I should pitty ! t'had bin better 
That I had beene remorslcsse) brought you hither, 
Where with some food and rest, thanks to the Gods 
Your senses are recovered. 

Ap, My good Angell ! 
I doe remember now that I was madde 
For want of meat and sleepe, thrice did the Sun 
Checrc all the world but me, thrice did the night 
With silent and bewtching darkn«sse give 
A resting time to every thing but Aphron. 
The fish, the beasts, the birds, the smallest creatures 
And the most despicable snor'd securely. 
The aguish head of every tree by /Eotui 
Was rockt asiecpe, and shooke as if it nodded. 
The crooked mountaines scem'd to bow and slumber, 
The very rivers ceas'd their daily murmur. 
Nothing did watch, but the pale IHoone, and I 
Paler then shee ; Griefe wedded to this toyle 
What else could it beget hut frantlcknesse ? 
But now me ihinkes, I am my owne, my braine 
Swimmcs not as it was wont ; O brightest Virgin 
Shew me some way by which I may be gratefuil, 
And if I do't not, let an eternall Phrcnzie 
Im medially seize on me. 

a. Alas ! 'twas only 
My love, and if you will reward me for't. 
Pay that I lent you, I'le require no interest; 
fbe P tin ci pall's enough. 
I Ap. You speake in mists. 

CL You're loth perhaps to understand. 



Ap. If 70U intend thxt I should love snd honour you, 
I doe by all the Gods. 

CI. But I am covetous in my demands, 
I am not satisfied with wind-like promises 
Which only touch the lips ; I aske your heart 
Your whole heart for me, in exchange of mine, 
Which so I gave to you. 

Ap. Ha 1 you amaze mc. 
Oh 1 you have spoken something worse then lightning, 
That blasts the inward parts, leaves, the outward wh^e, 
My gratitude commands me to obey you, 
But I am borne a man, and have those passions 
Fighting within me, which I must obey. 
Whilst CaUidara lives, although she bee 
As cruell, as thy breast is soft and gentle ; 
'Tis sinne for mc to thinke of any other. 

CI. You cannot love mc then f 

Ap. I doe I sweare, 
Above my selfe I doe : my selfc ? what said I } 
Alas ! that's nothing \ above anything 
But heaven and Callidora. 

CI. Fare you well then, 
I would not doe that wrong to one I love, 
To urge him farther then his power and will ; 
Farewell, remember me when you are gone. 
And happy in the love of Callidora. Exit 

Ap. When I doe not, may I forget my sclfe, 
Would I were madde againe ; then 1 might rave 
With privilcdge, I should not know the griefes 
That hurried mc about, 'twere better farre 
To lose the senses, then be tortured by them. 
Where is she gone f I did not aske her name, 
Foole that I was, alas poore Gentlewoman ! 
Can any one love me ? yee cruell Gods, 
Is't not enough that I my selfe am miserable, 
Must I make others so too? He goe in 
And comfort her ; alas 1 how can I though i 
He grieve with her, that is in ills a comfort. E*ii 


Enter Ahipisj Melamus^ Trugdy PaLtmotiy £gon. 

Pa. Before when you denyed your Daughter to me 
Twas Fortunes fault, not mine, but since good Fate 
Or rather Mgon^ better farre then Fate 
Hath raysd me up to what you aym'd at, riches, 
I see not with what coimtenance you can 
Coyne any second argument against me. 

AieL Come, no matter for that: 
Yes, I could wish you were lesse eloquent. 
You have a vice call'd Poesie which much 
Displeaseth me, but no nutter for that neither. 

jfL Alas I hee'le leave that straight 
When he has got but money ; he that swims 
In Tagus^ never will goe back to Helicon. 
Besides, when he hath maried Hylace 
Whom should he wooe, to praise her comely feature. 
Her skin like falling snow, her eyes like starres. 
Her cheekes like roses (which are common places 
Of all your lovers praises) 6h ! those vanities, 
Things quite as light, and foolish as a Mistris, 
Are by a Mistris first begot, and left 
When they leave her. 

Pa. Why doe you thinke that Poesie 
An art which even the Gods — 

Al. Pox on your arts. 
Let him thinke what he will ; what's that to us ? 

Mgpn. Well, I would gladly have an answer of you. 
Since I have made PaLemon here my sonne. 
If you conceive your Daughter is so good. 
Wee will not presse you, but seeke out some other 
Who may perhaps please me and him as well. 

Pa. Which is impossi' — 

Al. Rot on your possibles — 
Thy mouth like a crackt fiddle never sounds 
But out of tune ; Come, put on Truga 
You*le never speake unlesse I shew the ring. 

Tru. Yes, yes, I doe, I doe ; Doe yee heare sweet heart ? 
Are you madde to fling away a fortune 
That's thrust upon you, you know MgorCi rich. 



MeL Come, no matter for that, 
That's thrust upon me ? I would faine see any man 
Thrust ought upon me ; but's no matter for that, 
I will doe that which I intend to doe, 
And 'tis no matter for that neither, that's thrust upon me? 

Pa. Come, what say you Melamusf 

MeL What say I ? 'tis no matter what I say, 
I'le speake to ^goUy if I speake to any. 
And not to you ; but no matter for that ; 
Harke you, will you leave all the meanes you have 
To this PaLtmonf 

Tru. I Duck, he sayes he will. 

AfiL Pish, 'tis no matter for that. He heare him say sa 

jEg, I will, and here doe openly protest. 
That since my Bellula (mine that was once) 
Thinkes her selfe wiser then her father is. 
And will be govern'd rather by her passions. 
Then by the square that I prescribe to her. 
That I will never count her as my Daughter. 

Al, Well a£ted by God Party see but what 'tis 
To have me for a tutor in these rogueries. 

MeL But tell me now, good neighbour, what estate 
Doe you intend to give him ? 

£g. That estate 
Which Fortune and my care hath given to me. 
The money which I have, and that's not much. 
The sheepe, and Goats. 

MeL And not the oxen too? 

£g. Yes ; every thing. 

MeL The Horses too? 

£g. I tell you, every thing. 

AL By Pan hee'le make him promise him particularly 
Each thing above the valew of a Beanes-straw. 
You'le leave him the pailes too, to milke the Kine in, 
And harnesse for the horses, will you not ? 

MeL I, I, what else ; but 'tis no matter for that, 
I know PalamorCi an ingenious man. 
And love him therefore; But's no matter for that neither. 

Mg, Well, since we are both agreed, why do we stay here ? 
I know Palamon longs t'imbrace his Hylace. 



MeL I, I, 'tis no matter for that, within this houre 
Wee will be ready, £gmy pray be you so, 
Farewell my son in Law that shall be, 
But's no matter for that : Farewell all : 
Come Truga. Exeunt Melamus and Truga. 

Mg. Come on then, let's not stay too long in trifling, 
Falamon goe, and prepare your selfe against the time. 
rie goe acqtuunt my Belluia with your plot. 
Lest this unwelcome newes should too much grieve her. 
Before she know my meaning. 

A. Doe, doe; and Fie goe study 
Some new-found waves to vex the foole M\ela\mus. 

For 'tis but a folly^ 
To be melancholy^ &c. 

Enter Florellus. 

Whilst Callidorus lives, I cannot love thee. 

These were her parting words ; He kill him then ; 

Why doe I doubt it Foole? such wounds as these 

Require no gentler med'cine ; me thinkes Love 

Frownes at me now, and sayes I am too dull, 

Too slow in his command : and yet I will not. 

These hands are virgins yet, unstain'd with viUany, 

Shall I begin to teach them? — me thinkes Piety 

Frownes at me now, and sayes, I am too weake 

Against my passions. Pietie ! — 

Twas feare begot that Bugbeare ; for thee Belluia 

I durst be wicked, though I saw Joves hand 

Arm'd with a naked thunderbolt: Farewell, 

(If thou beest any thing, and not a shadow 

To fnght boyes and old women) Farewell conscience, 

Goe and be strong in other petty things 

To Lovers come, when Lovers may make use of thee. 

Not else: and yet, — what shall I doe or say? 

I see the better way, and know 'tis better, 

Yet still this devious error drawes me backward. 

So when contrary winds rush out and meet. 

And wrastle on the Sea with equall fury 

The waves swell into mountajnes, and are driven 



Now back, now forward, doubtful! of the two 
Which Captaine to obey. 

Enter Alupis. 

AL Ha, ha, He have such excellent sport 
For *iis but a foll% Sec, 

Flo. Why here's a fellow now makes sport of every thing, 
See one mans fate how it excels another, 
Hee can sit, and passe away the day in jollity. 
My musick is my sighes, whilst teares keepe time. 

AL Who's here ? a most rare posture ! 
How the good soule folds in his armes ! he dreames 
Sure that he hugges his Mistris now, for that 
Is his disease without all doubt, so, good. 
With what judicious garbe hee plucl^ his hat 
Over his eyes ; so, so, good ! better yet ; 
He cryes ; by this good light, he cryes ; the man 
Is carefiill, and intends to water his sheepe 
With his owne teares ; ha, ha, ha, ha. 

Flo. Dost thou see any thing that deserves thy laughter, 
Fond swaine ? 

AL I see nothing in good troth but you. 

Flo, To jeere those who are Fates May-game 
Is a redoubled fault ; for 'tis both sinne, 
And folly too ; our life is so uncertaine 
Thou canst not promise that thy mirth shall last 
To morrow, and not meet with any rubbe. 
Then thou mayst aft that part, to day thou laugh'st at. 

AL I aft a part? it must be in a Comedy then, 
I abhorre Tragedyes : besides, I never 
Praftiz'd this posture ; Hey ho ! woe, alas ! 
Why doe I live ? my musick is my sighes ^ 
Whilst teares keepe time. 

Flo. You take too great a licence to your wit; 
Wit, did I say ? I meane, that which you thinke so. 
And it deserves my pitty, more then anger. 
Else you should find, that blowes are heavier farre 
Then the most studied jests vou can throw at me. 

AL Faith it will be but labour lost to beat mee, 



All will not teach me how to a£l this part; 
Woe's me ! alas ! I'me a dull rogue, and so 
Shall never leame it. 

Fb. You're immannerlv 
To talke thus sawcily witn one you know not, 
Nay, hardly ever saw before, be gone 
And leave me as you foimd me, my worst thoughts 
Are better company then thou. 

AL Enjoy them then. 
Here's no body desires to rob you of them. 
I would have left your company without bidding, 
'Tis not so pleasant, I remember well. 
When I had spent all my money, I stood thus 
And therefore hate the posture ever since. 
D'yee heare ? I'me going to a wedding now ; 
If you 'ave a mind to dance, come along with me, 
Bring your hard-hearted Mistris with you too. 
Perhaps I may perswade her, and tell her 
Your Musick's sighes, and that your teares keepe time. 
Will you not goe? Farewell then, good Tragicall aftor. 
Now have at thee Melamus \ For Uis but a folly^ &c. Exit, 

Fb. Thou art a Prophet, Shepheard ; She is hard 
As rocks which sufifer the continuall siege 
Of Sea and wind against them ; but I will 
Win her or lose (which I should gladly doe) 
My sclfe : my selfe ? why so I have already : 
Ho ! who hath found Florellus ? he is lost. 
Lost to himselfe, and to his parents likewise, 
(Who having miss'd me, doe by this time search 
Each corner for to find me) 6h ! Florellus^ 
Thou must be wicked, or for ever wretched. 
Hard is the Physick, harder the disease. 

Finis A£fus Quarti, 


A<9:us V. Scsena I. 

Enter Alupisy PaUemony £gon, 

PA. The Gods convert these omens into good : 
And mocke my feares ; thrice in the very threshold, 
Without its Masters leave my foot stood still, 
Thrice in the way it stumbled. 

Al, Thrice, and thrice 
You were a foole then for observing it. 
Why these are follyes the young yeares of Truga 
Did hardly know ; are they not vanisht yet ? 

Pa. Blame not my feare : that's Cupids Usher alwayes ; 
Though Hylace were now in my embraces, 
I should halfe doubt it. 

A I. If you chanc'd to stumble. 

Mg. Let him enjoy his madnesse, the same liberty 
Hee'le grant to you, when you're a Lover too. 

Al. I, when I am, he may; yet if I were one 
I should not be dismay 'd because the threshold — 

Pa. Alas I that was not all, as I came by 
The oake to Faunus sacred, where the shepheards 
Exercise rurall sports on Festivalls, 
On that trees toppe an inauspicious Crow 
Foretold some ill to happen. 

Mg. And because Crowes 
Foretell wet weather, you interpret it 
The raine of your owne eyes ; but leave these tricks 
And let me advise you. 

Melarnus speaking to Hylace within his dore. 

Mel. Well come, no matter for that; I doc beleeve thee; 
And would they have such sport with vexing me ! 
But's no matter for that; He vex them for't, 



I know your fieiy lover will be here strait, 

But I shall coole him ; but come, no matter for that I 

Goe get you in, for I doe see them comming. 

JEg. Here comes Melamus. 

Pa. Hee lookes cheerefiilly, I hope all's well? 

Mg. Melamu$j opportunely : we were a comming 
Just now unto you. 

MeL Yes, very likely ; would you have spoken with me ? 

£g. Spoken with vou? 
Why, are you madde r have you forgot your promise ? 

MeL My promise ? oh ! 'tis true, I said indeed 
I would goe with vou to day to sell some kine, 
^tay but a little, lie be ready streight. 

Pa. I am amaz'd; Good £gon speake to him. 

Al. By this good light, 
I see no likelyhood of any mariage. 
Except betwixt the Kine and oxen. Harke you hither; 
A rotte upon your beasts; is Hylace ready? 

Mel. It's no matter for that f who's there ? Alupis ? 
Give me thy hand 'faith, thou'rt a merry fellow, 
I have not seene thee here these many dayes, 
But now I thinke on't, it's no matter for that neither. 

Al. Thy memory's fled away sure with thy wit. 
Was not I here lesse then an houre agoe 
With JEgon^ when you made the match ? 

Mel. Oh ! then you'le goe along with us. 
Faith doe; for you will make us very merry. 

Al. I shall, if you thus make a foole of me. 

Mel. Oh no ! you'le make you sport with vexing me. 
But mimi ; no matter for that neither : there 
I bob'd him privatly, I thinke. A%ide. 

JEg. Come, what's the businesse? 

Al. The businesse? why hee's madde, beyond the cure 
Of all the herbes grow in Anticyra. 

JEg. You see we have not fayl'd our word MelarnuSj 
I and my sonne are come. 

MeL Your son ! goodlack ! 
I thought, I sweare, you had no other child 
Besides your Daughter Bellula. 

JEgm. Nay, then 

c II. I 129 


I see you are disposM to make us fooles, — 
Did not I tell you that 'twas my intent 
To adopt PaUemon for my son and heire? 

Al. Did not you examine 
Whether he would leave him all, lest that he should 
Adopt some other heire to the cheese-presses. 
The milking-pailes, and creame-boules ? did you not? 

Mel. In troth 'tis well ; but where is Bellula f 

£gon. Nay ; prithee leave these tricks, and tell me 
What you intend, is Hylace ready? 

Mel. Ready? what else? shee's to be married presently: 
To a young shepheard, but's no matter for that. 

Pa. That's I, hence feares ; 
Attend upon the infancie of love. 
She's now mine owne. 

A I. Why 1 ; did not the crow on the oake foretell you this? 

Mel. Mylacfy Hylace^ come forth, 
Here's some are come to dance at your wedding. 
And they're welcome. {Enter Hylace.) 

Pa. The light appeares, just like the rising Sun, 
When o're yon hill it pccpes, and with a draught 
Of morning dew salutes the day, how fast 
The night of all my sorrow flycs away. 
Quite banisht with her sight ! 

Hy. Did you call for mc? 

Mel. Is Uarmetas come ? Fy, how slow he is 
At such a time ? but it's no matter for that ; 
Well get you in, and prepare to welcome him. 

Pa. Will you be gone so quickly, 6h ! bright Hylace 
That blessed houre by me so often begg'd. 
By you so oft deny'd, is now approaching. 

Mel. What, how now? what doe you kisse her? {Exit 
If Damatas were here, he would grow jealous, Hylace.) 

But 'tis a parting kisse, and so in manners 
She cannot deny it you ; but it's no matter for that. 
A I. How ? 

Mel. What doe you wonder at ? 
Why doe you thinke as soone as they are maried, 
Damatas such a foole, to let his wife 
Be kist by every body? 



Pa. How now? Danuetasf 
Why what hath he to doe with her? 

Mil Ha, ha I 
What hath the husband then to doe with's wife? 
Good : *tis no matter for that though ; he knowes what. 

Mg, You meane PaUtmon sure, ha, doe you not ? 

MeL Tis no matter for that, what I meane, I meane; 
Well, rest ye merry gentlemen, I must in. 
And see my Daughters wedding, if you please 
To dance with us ; Damatas sure will thanke yee ; 
Pray bring your son and heire Palamon with you, 
Belbild's cast away, ha, ha, ha, ha ! 
And the poore foole Melamus must be cheated. 
But it's no matter for that ; how now Alupis ? 
I thought you would have had most excellent sport 
With abusing poore Melamus ? that same coxcombe. 
For hee's a foole ; but it's no matter for that, 
JEgm hath cheated him, PaLemon is 
Maried to Hylace^ and one Alupis 
Doth nothing else but vex him, ha, ha, ha ! 
But it's no matter for that; farewell gentles, 
Or if yee'le come and dance, yee shall be welcome, 
Will you PaLemon ? 'tis your Mistris wedding. 
I am a foole, a coxcombe, guU'd on every side, 
No matter for that though; what I have done, I have done! 
Ha, ha, ha ! Exit. 

JEg. How now? what are you both dumbe? both thunder- 
^ strooke ? 

This was your plot Alupis. 

A I. I'le begin. 
May his sheepe rotte, and he for want of food 
Be forc't to eat them then ; may every man 
Abuse him, and yet he not have the wit 
To abuse any man, may he never speake 
More sence then he did now ; and may he never 
Bee ridde of his old wife Truga^ may his sonne 
In Law be a more famous Cuckold made 
Then any one I knew when I liv'd in the City. 

Pa. Foole as thou art, the Sun shall lose his course. 
And brightnesse too, ere Hjlaa her chastity. 

12 131 


Oh no I yet Gods, may she be ha.pp7 alwayes, 
Happy in the embraces of Damatas; 
And that shall be some comfort to my Ghost 
When I am dead ; and dead I shall be shortly, 
/t/. May a disease seize upon all his Cattle, 
And a forre worse on him ; till he at last 
Bee carried to some Hospitall i'the City, 
And there kiJl'd by a Chirurgion for experience. 
And when hee's gone, lie wish this good thing for him, 

May the earth lye gently on him that the do^jes 

May teare him up the easier. 

Mg. A curse upon thee ! 
And upon me for trusting thy fond counsels I 
Was this your cunning trick ? why thou hast wounded 
My conscience and niy reputation too, 
With what face can I lookc on the other Swaines? 
Or who will ever trust me, who have broke 
My faith thus openly.' 

Pa. A curse upon thee, 
This is the second time that thy perswasions 
Made me not only foole, but wicked too ; 
I should have dyed in quiet else, and knowne 
No other wound, but that of her denyall ; 
Go now, and bragge how thou hast us'd Pa/temm, 
But yet me thinkes you might have chose some other 
For subje^ of your mirth, not me. 

jEg, Nor me. 

A/. And yet if this had prospered (as I wonder 
Who it should be, betray'd us, since we three 
And Truga only knew it, whom, if she 
Betray'd us, I — ) if this, I say, had prospered. 
You would have hugg'd me for inventing it. 
And him for putting it in aft ; foolish men 
That doe not marke the thing but the event I 
Your judgements hang on Fortune, not on reason. 

£g. Dost thou upbraid us too? 

Pa. First make us wretched, 
And then laugh at us? beleeve, Alupis, 
Thou shalt not long have cause to boast thy vilUny. 

Al, My villany ? doe what yee can : you're foolet, 


And there's an end; He talke with you no more, 
I had as good speake reason to the wind 
As you, that can but hisse at it. 

JEg. Wee will doe more ; PaLemon^ come away, 
He hath wrong'd both ; and both shall satisfie. 

AL Which he will never doe ; nay, goe and plod, 
Your two wise braines will invent certainely 
Politique ginnes to catch me in. Exeunt, 

And now have at thee TrugOy if I find 
That thou art guiltie ; mum, — I have a ring. — 
PaLtmofiy Mgotij Hylace^ Melarnus 
Are all against me ; no great matter : hang care. 

For *tis but a folly^ &c. Exit. 

Enter Bellula. 

This way my CalUdorus went, what chance 

Hath snatchM him bota my sight? how shall I find him? 

How shall I find my selfe, now I have lost him ? 

With yee my feet and eyes I will not make 

The smallest truce, till yee have sought him out. Exit. 

Enter Callidorus and Florellus. 

Come, now your businesse. 

Fh. •Tis a fatall one. 
Which will almost as much shame me to speake. 
Much more to a£l, as 'twill fright you to heare it. 

Cat. Fright me? it must be then some wickednesse, 
I am accustom'd so to misery, 
That cannot do't. 

Fb. Oh ! Tis a sinne young man, 
A sinne which every one shall wond[e]r at. 
None not condemne, if ever it be knowne: 
Me thinkes my bloud shrinkes back into my veines. 
And my affrighted hayres are turn'd to bristles. 
Doe not my eyes creepe backe into their cells; 
As if they seem'd to wish for thicker darknesse. 
Then either night or death to cover them? 
Doth not my &ce looke black and horrid too? 
As black and horrid as my thoughts? ha! tell me. 



Cal. I am a novice in all villanyeSi 
If your intents be such, dismisse me, pray, 
My nature is more easie to discover 
Then helpe you ; so, Farewell. 

Flo. Yet stay a little longer; you must stay: 
You are an aflor in this Tragedy. 

CaL What would you doc? 

Flo, Alas I I would doe nothing ; but I must — 

Cal, What must you doc? 

Flo, I must. — Love thou hast got the viftory — 
Kill thee. 

Cal, Who? me? you doc but jest, 
I should believe you, if I could tell how ^ 

To frame a cause, or thinke on any injury 
Worth such a large revenge, which I have done you, 

Flo, Oh no I there's all the wickednesse, they may seeme 
To find excuse for their abhorred h£t ; 
That kill when wrongs, and anger urgeth them ; 
Because thou art so good, so afitable. 
So full of graces, both of mind and body, 
Therefore I kill thee, wilt thou know it plainely, 
Because whilst thou art living, Bellula 
Protested she would never be anothers. 
Therefore I kill thee. 

Call. Had I beene your rivall 
You might have had some cause ; cause did I say ? 
You might have had pretence for such a villany : 
He who unjustly kills is twice a murtherer. 

Flo, He whom love bids to kill is not a murtherer. 

Cal, Call not that love that's ill, 'tis only fury. 

Flo, Fury in ills is halfc excusable : 
Therefore prepare thy selfe ; if any sinnc 
(Though I beleeve thy hot and flourishing youth 
As innocent as other mens nativities) 
Hath flung a spot upon they purer conscience 
Wash it in some few teares. 

Call, Are you resolv'd to be so cruell? 

Flo, I must, or be as cruell to my selfe. 

Call, As sick men doe their beds, so have I yet 
Injoy'd my selfe, with little rest, much trouble : 


I have beene made the Ball of Love and Fortune, 
And am almost worne out with often playing. 
And therefore I would enter taine mj death 
As some good friend whose comming I expedted ; 
Were it not that my parents — 

Fb. Here ; see, 1 doe not come {Drawes two swords 

Like a foule murtherer to intrap you falsly, from under his 
Take your own choyse, and then defend your selfe. garment 

CaL Tis nobly done ; and since it must be so, and offers 
Although my strength and courage call me woman one to 
I will not dye like sheepe without resistance, Call.) 

If innocence be guard sufficient, 
Pme sure he cannot hurt me. 

Fb. Are you ready? the fatall Cuckow on yon spreading 
Hath sounded out your dying knell already. 

CaL I am. 

Fh. Tis well, and I could wish thy hand 
Were strong enough ; 'tis thou dcscrvest the vidtory. 
Nay, were not th'hope of Belhila ingraven 
In sdl my thoughts, I would my selfe play booty 
Against my selfe ; But Bel/ula^^omc on. Fight. 

Enter Philistus. 

This is the wood adjoyning to the Farme, 

Where I gave order unto Clariana 

My sister, to remaine till my returne ; 

Here 'tis in vaine to seeke her, yet who knowes ? 

Though it be in vaine He seeke; to him that doth 

Propose no journeys end, no path's amisse. 

Why how now ? what doe you meane ? for shame part 

I thought you honest shepheards, had not had Sees them 

So much of Court, and Citie follies in you. fighting. 

Fb. *Tis Philistus ; I hope he will not know me. 
Now I begin to see how black and horrid 
My attempt was; how much unlike Fbrellus^ 
Thankes to the juster Deityes for declining 
From both the danger, and from me the sin. 



Phi. 'Twould be a wrong to charity to dismisse yee 
Before I see you friends, give me your weapons. 

Ca/. 'Tis he ; why doe I doubt ? most willingly, 
And my selfe too, best man ; now kill me shepheard — 

Phi, What doe you meane ? {Summii) 

Rise, prithee rise ; sure you have wounded him. 

Enter Bellula. 

Deceive me not good eyes; what doe I see? 
My Callidorus dead ? 'Tis impossible ! 
Who is it that lyes slaine there? arc you dumbe? 
Who is't I pray? 

Flo, Faire Mistris — 

Bel, Pish, feire Mistris, — 
I aske who 'tis ; if it be Callidorus — 

Phi. Was his name Callidorus} it is strange. 

Bel, You are a villaine, and you too a villaine, 
Wake Callidorus J wake, it is thy Bellula 
That calls thee, wake, it is thy Bellula \ 
Why Gentlemen ? why shepheard ? fye for shame. 
Have you no charity ? 6 my Callidorus ! 
Speake but one word — 

Cal, 'Tis not well done to trouble me. 
Why doe you envy me this little rest ? 

Bel, No ; I will follow thee. {Sweunds.) 

Flo. O helpe, helpc quickly. 
What doe you meane? your Callidorus lives. 

Bel. Callidorus ! 

Flo. And will be well immediatly, take courage, 
Lookc up a little : wretched as I am, 
I am the cause of all this ill. 

Phi. What shall we doe? I have a sister dwells 
Close by this place, let's hast to bring them thither. 
But lets be sudden. 

Flo. As wing'd lightning is. 
Come Bellula in spite of Fortune now 
I doe embrace thee. 

Phi. I did protest without my Callidora 
Ne're to returne, but pitty hath o'recome. 




Bet. Where am 1 ? 

FU. Where I could alwa^ wish thee : in those annes 
Which would enfold thee with more subtill knots, 
Then amorous Ivy, whilst it hugges the oake. 

CaL Where doe ye beare me ? is PMiitut well ? 

How should he kjiow my name ? 'tis to me a riddle. 
Nay Shepheard find another time to court in, 
Make hast now with your burthen. 

Fie. With what ease should I goe alwaies were I burthencd 
(thus ! Exeunt 

Enter Apbron. 

She told me she was sister to Philhlus, 

Who having mist the beauteous Ca/iidara, 

Hath undertooke a long, and hopelessc journey 

To find her out; then Callidora's fled. 

Without her parents knowledge, and who knowes 

When shec'le returne, or if she doc, what then ? 

Lambes will make peace, and joync themselves with wolves 

Ere she with me, worse then a wolfe to her: 

Besides, how durst I undertake to court her ? 

How dare I lookc upon her after this .' 

Foole as I am, I will forget her quite, 

And Clariana shall hence-forth — but yet I 

How feire she was ! what then ? so's Clariana ; 

What graces did she dart on all beholders? 

Shee did ; but so does Clariana too, 

Shee was as pure and white as Parian marble. 

What then .' Shee was as hard too j Clariana \ 

Is pure and white as Eridna's Doves, 

And is as soft, as gallesse too as they, 

Her pitty sav'd my life, and did restore 

My wandring senses, if I should not love her, 

I were farre madder now, then when she found me, 

I will goc in and render up myselfe, 

For her most faithful! servant. 

Wonderfull ! Exit. Enter againe. 

Shee has lockt me in, and keepcs mc here her prisoner : 

Id these two chambers; what can she Intend? 



No matter, she intends no hurt Tme sure, 
rie patiently expe£l her comming to me. 

Enter Demophily Spodaioj Clarianaj Flortlhi^ 
Callidora^ Bellula^ Philistus. 


Dem, My Daughter found againe, and son returnd ! 
Ha, ha ! me thinkes it makes me young againe. 
My Daughter and my Son meet here together ! 
Philistus with them too ! that we should come 
To grieve with Clarianoy and find her here. 
Nay, when we thought we had lost Florellus too 
To find them both, me thinkes it makes me young againe. 

Spo. I thought I never should have seene thee more 
My Callidora \ come wench, now let's heare. 
The story of your flight and life in the woods. 

Phi, Doe happy Mistris for the recordation. 
Of forepast ils, makes us the sweetlier rellish 
Our present good. 

Cal. Of Aphrons love to me, and my antipathy 
Towards him, there's none here ignorant, you know too 
How guarded with his love, or rather fury. 
And some few men he broke into our house 
With resolution to make me the prey 
Of his wild lust. 

Sp, I, there's a villaine now ; oh I that I had him here. 

Cla, Oh ! say not so : 
The crymes which Lovers for their Mistris aft 
Beare both the weight and stampe of piety. 

Dem, Come girle ; goe on, goe on. His wild lust — 

Cla, What sudden feare shooke me, you may imagine, 
What should I doe? you both were out of towne, 
And most of the servants at that time gone with you. 
I on the sudden found a corner out. 
And hid my selfe, till they wearied with searching, 
Quitted the house, but fearing lest they should 
Attempt the same againe ere your returne, 
I tooke with me money and other necessaries; 
And in a sute my Brother left behind 
Disguis'd my selfe, thus to the woods I went, 



Where meeting with an honest merrv Swaine, 
I by his helpe was furnisht, and made Shepheard. 

Sp. Nay, I must needs say for her, she was alwayes 
A witty wench. 

Dim. Pish, pish : And made a Shepheard — 

CaL It hapned that this gentle Shephea[r]desse, 
(I can attribute it to nought in me 
DeservM so much) began to love me. 

Phi. Why so did all besides lie warrant you, 
Nor can I blame them, though they were my rivall. 

CaL Another Shepheard with as much desire 
Wooed her in vaine, as she in vaine wooed me. 
Who seeing that no hope was left for him, 
Whilst I enjoy*d this life t'enjoy his Belluloy 
(For by that name she's knowne) sought to take me 
Out of the way as a partition 
Betwixt his love and him, whilst in the fields 
Wee two were strugling, (him his strength defending. 
And me my innocence.) 

Flo. I am asham'd to looke upon their faces. 
What shall I say? my guilt's above excuse. 

CaL PhiSstus ; as if the (jods had all agreed 
To make him mine, just at the nick came in 
And parted us, with sudden joy I sounded. 
Which BiUula perceiving (for even then 
Shee came to seeke me) sudden griefe did force 
The same e£Fe£t from her, which joy from me. 
Hither they brought us both, in this amazement. 
Where being straight recovered to our selves, 
I found you here, and you your dutifull Daughter. 

Spo. The (jods be thankt. Dem. Goe on. 

CaL Nay, you have all Sir. 

Dem. Where's that Shepheard ? Flo. Here. Dem. Here, 
where ? 

Fb. Here, your unhappy Sonne's the man ; for her 
I put on Sylvan weeds, for her faire sake 
I would have stayn'd my innocent hands in bloud. 
Forgive me all, 'twas not a sin of malice, 
*Twas not begot by lust, but sacred love ; 
The cause must be the excuse for the e£k£l. 



Dtm. You should have us'd some other meanes, FUrtlha. 

Cal. Alas ! 'twas the Gods will Sir, without that 
I had beene undiscovered yet ; Philhtut 
Wandrcd too foire, my Brother yet a Shepheard, 
You groaning for our losse, upon this wheele 
All our felicity is turn'd. 

5*. Alas I you have forgot the power of love, sweet-heart 

Dem. Be patient Son, and temper your desire, 
You shall not want a wife that wilt perhaps 
Please you as well, I'mc sure befit you better. 

FU. They marry not, but sell themselves t'a wife, 
Whom the large dowry tempts, and take more pleasure 
To buggc the wealthy baggcs then her that brought tbeOL 
Let them whom nature bestowcs nothing on 
Seeke to patch up their want by parents plenty ; 
The beautifull, the chast, the vertuous, 
Her selfe alone is portion to her selfe. 

Enter /Sgon. 

By your leave ; I come to seeke a Daughter. 

1 are you there, 'tis well. 
Fh. This is her Father, 

1 doe conjure you Father, by the love 
Which parents bcarc their children, to make up 
The match betwixt us now, or if you will not 
Send for your friends, prepare a coflin for me 
And let a grave be dig'd, I wilt be happy, 

Or else not know my misery to morrow j 

Sf». You doe not thinke what ill may happen husband, 
Come, let him have her, you have meanes enough 
For hiro, the wench is bire, and if her face 
Be not a flatterer, of a noble mind, 
Although not stocke. 

/Eg. I doe not like this stragling, come along, 
By vour leave Gentlemen, I hope you will 
Pardon my bold intrusion. 

CL You're very welcome. 
What are you going Btilula i pray stay. 
Though Nature contradicts our love, I hope 
That I may have your friendship. 


jEg. BiUula ! 

Bel. My father calls ; fivewell ; your name, and memory 
In spite of Fate, Fie love, farewell. 

Flo. Would you be gone, and not bestow one word 
Upon your fiuthfiill servant? doe not all 
My griefes and troubles for your sake sustaynd, 
Deserve, Farewell Fhnllm? Bel. Fare you well then. 

Flo. Alas ! how can I, Sweet, unlesse you stay, 
Or I goe with you? you were pleas'd ere while 
To say you honoured me with the next place 
To CalUdorus in your heart, then now 
I should be first : doe you repent your sentence ? 
Or can that tongue sound lesse then Oracle? 

BeL Perhaps I am of that opinion still. 
But must obey my Father. 

Mg. Why Beliila? would you have ought with her Sir? 

FU. Yes, I would have her selfe ; if constancy 
And love be meritorious, I deserve her. 
Why Father, Mother, Sister, Gentlemen, 
Will you plead for me? 

Dem. Since't must be so. Tie beare it patiently, 
Shepheard you see how much our son is taken 
With your faire Daughter, therefore if you thinke 
Him fitting for her husband speake, and let it 
Be made a match immediatly, we shall 
£xpe£l no other dowrie then her vertue. 

JEg. Which only I can promise ; for her fortune 
Is beneath you so farre, that I could almost 
Suspedt your words, but that you seeme more noble. 
How now, what say you Girle? 

Bel. I only doe depend upon your will. 

^g. And De not be an enemy to thy good fortune. 
Take her Sir, and the Gods blesse you. 

Flo. With greater joy then I would take a Crowne. 

i//. The Gods blesse you. 

Fb. They have don't already. 

^g. Lest you should thinke when time, and oft enjoying 
Hath dul'd the point, and edge of your afiedtion 
That you have wrong'd your selfe and family. 
By marying one whcKe very name, a Shepheardesse, 



Might fling some spot upon your birth, Tie tell 70U, 
She is not mine, nor borne in these rude woods. 

Flo. How ! you speake misty wonders. 

jEg. I speake truths Sir, 
Some fifteene yeares agoe, as I was walking 
I found a Nurse wounded, and groning out 
Her latest spirit, and by her a raire child, 
And, which her very aressing might declare, 
Of wealthy parents, as soone as I came to them 
I as'kd her who had us*d her so inhumanly : 
She answered Turkish Pirats ; and withall 
Desired me to looke unto the child. 
For 'tis, said she, a Noblemans of Sicily^ 
His name she would have spoke, but death permitted not. 
Her as I could, I caused to be buried. 
But brought home the little Girle with me. 
Where by my wives perswasions wee agreed. 
Because the Gods had blest us with no issue. 
To nourish as our owne, and call it Bellula 
Whom now you see, your wife, your Daughter. 

Spo. Is't possible ? Flo, Her manners shew'd her noble. 

/Eg. I call the Gods to witnesse, this is true. 
And for the farther testimony of it, 
I have yet kept at home the furniture. 
And the rich mantle which she then was wrapt in, 
Which now perhaps may serve to some good use 
Thereby to know her parents. 

Dem. Sure this is Aphrom sister then, for just 
About the time he mentions, I remember. 
The governour of Pachinusy then his Father 
Told me that certaine Pirats of Argter 
Had broke into his house, and stolne from thence 
With other things his Daughter, and her Nurse, 
Who being after taken, and executed. 
Their last confession was, that they indeed 
Wounded the Nurse, but she fled with the child. 
Whilst they were busie searching for more prey. 
Whom since her father, neither saw, nor heard of. 

Cla. Then now I'me sure Sir, you would gladly pardon 
The rash attempt of Aphroriy for your Daughter, 



Since fortune hath joyn'd, both of you by kindred. 

Dim. Most willingly : Spo. I, I, alas ! 'twas love. 

Flo. Where should wee find him out ? 

Cla. He save that labour. Exit Clariana. 

CaL Where's Hylaa pray shepheard ? and the rest 
Of my good Silvan friends ? me thinkes I would, 
Faine take my leave of them. 

Mg. rie fetch them hither. 
They're not farre ofl^ and if you please to helpe 
The match betwixt Hylaa and PaLemotiy 
nPwould be a good deed, De goe fetch them. Exit. 

Enter Aphron^ Clariana. 

Ap. Ha ! whether have you led me Clariana ? 
Some steepy mountaine bury me alive, 
Or rock intombe me in its stony intrayles, 
Whom doe I see? 

Cla. Why doe you stare my Aphron? 
They have forgiven all. 

Dem. Come, Aphron^ welcome. 
We have forgot the wrong you did my Daughter, 
The name of love hath cover'd all ; this is 
A joyful! day, and sacred to great Hymen 
'Twere sin not to be friends with all men now. 

&p. Methinks, I have much adoe to forgive the rascall. 


Ap. I know not what to say ; doe you all pardon me ? 
I have done wrong to yee all, yea, to all those 
That have a share in vertue. Can yee pardon me ? 

All. Most willingly. 

Apb. Doe you say so faire Virgin \ 
You I have injur'd most : with love. 
With sauc^ love, which I henceforth recall. 
And will looke on you with an adoration, 
Not with desire hereafter ; tell me, pray. 
Doth any man yet call you his ? 

Cal. Yes; Pbiliitm. 

Ap. I congratulate it Sir. 
The Gods make yee both happy: foole, as I am, 



You are at the height already of felicity, 
To which there's nothing can be added now, 
But perpetuity } you shall not find me 
Your rivall any more, though I confesse 
I honor her, and will for ever doe so. 
Clariana^ I am so much unworthy 
Of thy love. That— 

CI. Goe no farther Sir, 'tis I should say so 
Of my owne selfe. 

Phi. How Sister? are you two so neere upon a match? 

Ap. In our hearts Sir, 
Wee are already joyn'd, it may be though 
You will be loth to have unhappy Aphron^ 
Stile you his Brother? 

Phi. No Sir, if you both 
Agree, to me it shall not be unwelcome. 
W hy here's a day indeed ; sure Hymen now 
Meanes to spend all his torches. 

Dem. 'Tis my Son Sir, 
New come from travaile, and your Brother now. 

Ap. I understand not. Dem. Had you not a sister? 

Ap. I had Sir ; but where now she is none knowes, 
Besides the Gods. 

Dem. Is't not about some fifteene yeares agoe 
Since that the Nurse scap't with her from the hands 
Of Turkish Pyrats that beset the house ? 

Ap. It is Sir. 

Dem. Your sister lives then, and is maried 
Now to Florellus ; this is she, you shall be 
Enform'd of all the circumstances anon. 

Ap. 'Tis impossible. 
I shall be made too happy on the sudden. 
My Sister found, and Clariana mine ! 
Come not too thick good joyes, you will oppresse me. 

Enter MelamuSy Truga^ ^gon^ Hylace^ Palamon. 

Cal. Shepheards you're welcome all ; though I have lost 
Your good society, I hope I shall not 
Your friendship, and best wishes. 



£gm. Nb^, here's wonders; 
Now CalUdarut is found out a woman, 
Btllula not taj Daughter, and is maried 
To yonder Gentleman, for which I intend 
To doe in earnest what before I jested, 
To adopt PaUemtH for my heire. 

-Mel. Ha, ha, ha I 
Come it's no matter for that ; doe you thinke 
To chcate me once againe with your fine tricks? 
No matter for that neither. Ha, ha, ha I 
Alas I shee's maried to Damttai. 

Mg. Nay, that was your plot Mtlamut^ 
I met with him, and he denycs it to me. 

Hj. Henceforth I must not love, but honor you — to 

Mg. By all the Gods I will. 

r™. He will, he will ; Duck. 

Mil. Of every thing ? 

£g. Of every thing ; I call 
These gentlemen to witncsse here, that since 
I have no child to care for ; I will make 
PaLrmsH heire to those small meanes the Gods, 
Have blest me with, if he doe marry Hylace. 

MtU Come it's no matter for that, I scarce belccve you. 

Dtm. Wee'le be his suretyes. 

MiL Hjlaci 
What thinke you of PaUmen ? can you love him ? 
H'as our consents, but it's no matter for that. 
If he doe please you, speake, or now, or never. 

Hjl. Why doc I doubt fond Girle } shee's now a woman. 

Mtl. No matter for that, what you doc, doe quickly. 

Hyl. My duty binds me not to be averse 
To what likes you — 

Mel. Why take her then Paltemen; she's yours for ever. 

Pa. With iirrc more joy 
Then I would doe the wealth of both the Indyes, 
Thou art above a father to me, Mgini. 
Ware freed from misery with sense of joy, 
Wee are not borne so ; oh ! my Hylace, 
It is my comfort now that thou wert hard, 

en. K 145 


And cruell till this day^ delights are sweetest 
When poysoned with the trouble to attaine them. 

Enter Alupis. 

For Uis but a folly^ ice. 
By your leave, I come to seeke a woman. 
That hath outlived the memorie of her youth, 
With skin as black as her teeth, if she have any. 
With a face would fright the Constable and his watch 
Out of their wits (and that's easily done you'le say) if they 
should meet her at midnight. 

! are you there ? I thought I smelt you somewhere ; 
Come hither my she Nestor, pretty Truga^ 

Come hither, my sweet Duck. 

Tru. Why ? are you not asham'd to abuse me thus, 
Before this company ? 

AL I have something more ; 

1 come to shew the ring before them all \ 
How durst you thus betray us to Melarnus? 

Tru, 'Tis false, 'twas Hylace that over-heard you ; 
Shee told me so ; but they are maried now. 

AL What doe you thinke to flam me ? why ho ! here's 

Pa. Alupis art thou there? forgive my anger, 
I am the happiest man alive, Alupis^ 
Hylace is mine, here are more wonders too. 
Thou shalt know all anon. 

Tru. Alupisj give me. Al. Well, rather then be troubled. 

/Eg. Alupis welcome, now w'are friends I hope? 
Give me your hand. Mel. And me. 

Al. With all my heart, 
I'me glad to see yee have learn'd more wit at last. 

Cal. This is the Shepheard, Father, to whose care 
I owe for many favours in the woods. 
You're welcome heartily ; here's every body 
Payr'd of a sudden ; when shall's see you maried ? 

A I. Me? when there are no ropes to hang my selfe, 
No rocks to breake my neck downe; I abhorre 
To live in a perpetuall Belfary ; 



I never couM abide to have a Master, 
Much lesse a Mistris, and I will not many. 
Because, Pie ling away ibt day. 

Far 'tis tut a felly to bt mtlanchally, 

lit if nurry whilst I may. 
Pin. You're welcome all, and I desire you all 
To be my guests to day ; a Wedding dinner, 
Such as the sudden can afibrd, wee'le have, 
Come will yec walke in Gentlemen? 

Drm. Yes^ yes, 
What crosses luve yee borne before yce joyn'd ! 
What seas past through before yee touch't the port ! 
Thus Lovei^ doc, ere they are crown'd by Fates 
With Palme, the tree their patience imitates. 


Spoken by Alupis. 

THe Author bid me tell you — yaith^ I havi 
Forgot what ^twas\ and Prrn a very slave 
If I know what to say ; but only thsSy 
nee merry^ that my counsell alwayes is. 
Let no grave man knit up his broWj and say^ 
^Tis foolish : why ? 'twas a Boy made the Play, 
Nor any yet of those that sit behind^ 
Because he goes in Plushy be of his mind. 
Let none his Time^ or his spent money grieve^ 
Bee merry; Give me your handsj and I*le believe. 
Or if you will noty Vie goe i«, and see^ 
If I can turne the Authors mindy with met 
To sing away the day, 
For 'tis but a folly 
To bee melancholy 
Since that can't mend the Play. 







By a SchoUer in Oxford. 


Prmted in the Teare M.DC.XLIIL 

A Satyre. 




SO two rude wavesy by stormes together thrownc, 
Roare at each other, fight, and then grow om. 
Religion is a Circle ; men contend, 
And runne the round in dispute without end. 
Now in a Circle who goe contrary, 
Must at the last meet of necessity. 
The Roman to advance the CathoUcke cause 
Allowes a L/V, and calls it Pia Fraus, 
The Puritan approves and does the same, 
Dislikes nought in it but the Latin name. 
He flowes with these devises, and dares ly 
In very deed^ in truth^ and verity. 
He whines, and sighes out Liesy with so much ruth, 
As if he griev'd, 'cause he could neVe speake truth. 
Lies have possest the Presse so, as their due, 
'Twill scarcely, 'I feare, henceforth print Bibles true. 
Lies for their next strong Fort ha'th' Pulpit chose. 
There throng out at the Preachers mouthy and nose. 
And how e're grosse, are certaine to beguile 
The poore Booke-turners of the middle Isle. 
Nay to th' Almighty*s selfe they have beene bold 
To ly^ and their blasphemous Minister told 
They might say false to Gody for if they were 
Beaten, he knew't not, for he was not there. 
But Gody who their great thankefulnesse did see. 
Rewards them straight with another Ficforiey 
Just such another at Brainceford \ and san's doubt 
Will weary er't be long their gratitude out. 



Not all the Legends of the Saints of old, 

Not vast Baroniusy nor sly Surius hold 

Such plenty of apparent LieSy as are 

In your one AuthoTy yo. Browne Cleric, Par. 

Besides what your sniall Poets have said, or writ, 

BroekeSy Strodey and the Baron of the Saw-pit: 

With many a Af entail Reservationy 

You*le maintaine Libertjy Reserved [your owne.] 

For th' publique good the summes rais'd you'le disburse; 

Reserv'dy [The greater part for your owne purse.] 

You*le root the Cavaliers out, every man ; 

Faith, let it be reserved here ; [If yee can.] 

You'le make our gracious Charles, a glorious King; 

Reserved [in Heaveny"] for thither ye would bring 

His RoyaJl Head ; the onely secure roome 

For glorious KingSy whither you^le never come. 

To keepe the estates o'th* Subjefts you pretend ; 

Reserved [in your owne Trunies i] you will defend 

The Church of Englandy 'tis your Protestation ; 

But that's New-Englandy by'a small Reservation. 

Power of dispensing Oaths the Papists claime ; 
Case hath got leave o' Gody to doe the same. 
For you doe hate all swearing so, that when 
You have sworne an Oathy ye breake it streight agen. 
A Curse upon you ! which hurts most these Nations, 
Cavaliers swearingy or your Protestations? 
Nay, though Oaths by you be so much abhorr'd, 
Ye allow God damne me in the Puritan Lord. 

They keepe the Bible from Lay-meny but ye 
Avoid this, for ye have no Laytie. 
They in a forraigne, and unknowne tongue pray. 
You in an unknowne sence your prayers say : 
So that this difference 'twixt ye does ensue, 
Fooles understand not thenty nor fVise men you. 

They an unprofitable zeale have got. 
Of invocating Saints that heare them not. 
*Twere well you did so ; nought may more be fear'd 
In your fond prayers, then that they should be heard. 
To them your Ison-sence well enough might passe. 
They'd nc're see that i'th' Divine LooUng-glasse : 



Nay, whether youMe worship Saints is not jret knowne. 
For ve'have as vet of your Religion none. 

They by gooa-workes thinke to be justified^ 
You into the same errour deeper slide ; 
You thinke by workes too justified to be, 
And those ill workes^ LieSy Treason^ Perjurie, 
But oh your faith is mighty, that hath beene, 
As true faith ought to be, of things unseene. 
At Worc^stevy Braincefordy and Edge hilly we see, 
Onely by faith you'have gotten vi^ory. 
Such is your faithy and some such unseene way 
The publiqui faith at last your debts will pay. 

They hold free-will (that nought their soules may bind) 
As the great Priviledge of all mankind. 
You're here more moderatey for 'tis your intent, 
To make't a Priviledge but of Parliament. 
They forbid Priests to marry ; you worse doc. 
Their Marriage you allow, yet punish too : 
For you'de make Priests so poore, that upon all 
Who marryy scorne and beggery must fall. 

They a bold power o're sacred Scriptures take. 
Blot out some Clauses, and some new ones make. 
Your great Lord Jesuite Brookes publiquely said, 
{Brookes whom too little learning hath made mad) 
That to correft the Creed ye should doe well, 
And blot out Christs descending into Hell. 
Repent wild man, or you'le ne're change, I feare, 
The sentence of your owne descending there. 

Yet modestly they use the Creedy for they 
Would take the Lords prayer Root and Branch away. 
And wisely said a Levit of our nation. 
The Lords Prayer was a Popish Innovation. 
Take heed, you'le grant ere long it should be said, 
An't be but to desire your daily Bread. 

They keepe the people ignoranty and you 
Keepe both the PeopUy and yourselves so too. 
They blind obedience and blind duty teach ; 
You blind Rebellion and blind faction preach. 
Nor can I blame you much, that yee advance 
That which can onely save yee. Ignorance 'y 



Though Heaven be pravsed, t'has oft beene proved well 

Your Ignorance is not invincibU. 

Nay such bold lies to God him selfe yee vaunt, 

As if jrou'd faine keepe him too ignorant, 

Limlms and Purgatory they beleive 
For lesser sinnersy that is, I conceive, 
Afalignants onely ; you this Tricke does please, 
For the same Cause ye'have made new Limbuses^ 
Where we may ly imprisoned long ere we 
A day of yudgement in your Courts shall see. 
But Pjm can, like the Pope with this dispence ; 
And for a Bribe deliver Saules from thence. 

Their Counak daime InfallibHityy 
Such must your Conventicle-synod be ; 
And Teachers from all Parts of th' Earth yee call. 
To mak't a Councell OecumenicalL 

They sev'rall times appoint from meats t'abstaine ; 
You now for th' Irish warres a Fast ordaine; 
And that that Kingdome might be sure to fast 
Yee take a Course to sterve them all at last. 
Nay though yee keepe no EveSy FridayeSy nor Lenty 
Not to dresse meate on Sundayes you're Content ; 
Then you repeat, repeat, and pray> and pray ; 
Your Teeth keepe Sabbothy and Tongues working day. 

They preserve Reliques ; you have few or none, 
Unlesse the Chut sent to John Pym be one. 
And HolKses rich fVidotVy Shee who carryed 
A Relique in her wombe before she married. 

They in succeeding Peter take a Pride ; 
So doe you ; for your Master ye'havc denyed. 
But cheifely Peters Priviledge yee choose, 
At your own wills to bind and to unloose. 
He was a Fisherman \ you may be so too. 
When nothing but your ships are left to you. 
He went to R»mey to Rome you Backward ridey 
(Though both your goings are by some denyed.) 
Nor i'st a Contradidtion, if we say. 
You goe to Rome the quite Contrary way -y 
He dy'd o'the Crosse ; that death's unusuall now ; 
The Gallowes is most like't, and that's for you. 



They musicke love i'th Church; it ofiends your sence. 
And therefore yee have sung it out from thence. 
Which shewes, if right your mind be understood. 
You hate it not as Musicki^ but as Good. 
Your madnesse makes you sing^ as much as they 
Danciy who are bit with a Tarantula. 
But do not to your selves (alas) appeare 
The most Ri/igious Traitors that ere were, 
Because your Troopes singing of Psalmes do goe ; 
Ther's many a Traytor has marcht Ho/bourn so. 
Nor was't your wit this holy projedl bore ; 
Tweed and the Tyne has scene those Trickes before. 

They of strange Miracles and wonders tell, 
You are your selves a kind of Miracle \ 
Even such a miracle as in writ divine 
We read o'th Devills hurrying downe the Swine, 
They have made Images to speake^ 'tis said, 
You a dull Image have your Speaker made ; 
And that your bounty in offerings might abound, 
Y'have to that Idoll giv'n six thousand pound. 
They drive out Devills, they say j here yee begin 
To differ, I confesse ; you let them in. 

They maintaine Transubstantiation ; 
You by a Contrary Philosophers stone^ 
To Transubstantiate MettaJIs, have the skill ; 
And turne the Kingdomes Gold to Pron and Steele, 
I'th' Sacrament yee agree not, but 'tis noted. 
Bread must be Fleshy IVine Bloudy if ere't be voted. 

They make the Pope their Heady you'exalt for him 
Primate and Metropolitane^ Master Pym ; 
Nay, IVhitey who sits in the Infallible Chaire^ 
And most Infallibly speakes Non-sence there : 
Nay Cromwell J Pury^ Whistler^ Sir John Wray^ 
He who does say, and say, and say, and say. 
Nay Lowrvy who does new Churco^Gover'mgnt wish. 
And ProphesieSy like JonaSy midst the Fish, 
Who can such various businesse wisely sway. 
And handle HerringSy and Bishops in one day. 
Nay all your Preachersy Women, Boyes, or Men, 
From Master Calamyy to Mistresse Veny 


Arc perfcd Popei in their owne Parish growne ; 
For to outdoe the story of Pope Jonei 
Your fVomen preach too, and are like to bee 
The fVhores of Babylon^ as much as Shee, 

They depose Kings by force ; by force you'de doe it. 
But first use faire meanes to perswade them to it. 
They dare kill Kings ; now 'twixt ye here's the strife, 
That you dare shoot at Kings^ to save their life. 
And what's the difierence, 'pray, whether he fall 
By the Popes Bull or your Oxe Generall? 
Three Kingdomes thus ye strive to make your owne; 
And, like the Pope^ usurpe a Triple Crowne. 

Such is your Faithy such your Religion ; 
Let's view your manners now, and then I ha' done. 
Your Covetousnesse let gasping Ireland tell. 
Where first the Irish Landsy and next ye sell 
The English Bloud\ and raise Rebellion here. 
With that which sliould suppresse, and quench it there. 
What mighty summes have ye squeez'd out o'th' City? 
Enough to make 'em poore^ and something witty. 
Excise^ LoaneSj ContributionSy Pole-moneySy 
BribeSy Plundery and such Parliament PriviledgeSy 
Are words which you'le ne're iearne in holy Writ, 
'Till the Spirit and your Synod ha's mended it. 
Where's all the Twentieth part now, which hath beene 
Paid you by some, to forfeit the Nineteenei 
Where's all the Goods distrain^ dy and Plunders past ? 
For you're growne wretched, pilfering knaves at last ; 
Descend to Brasse and Pewter ; till of late. 
Like Midasy all ye touchty must needs be Plate, 

By what vast hopes is your Ambition fed ? 
'Tis writ in bbudy and may be plainly read. 
You must have PlaceSy and the Kingaome sway ; 
The King must be a Ward to your Lord Say, 
Your innocent Speaker to the RolUs must rise. 
Six thousand pound hath made him proud and wise, 
Kimbolton for his Fathers place doth call ; 
Would be like him ; would he were, face and all. 
Isaack would alwayes be Lord Mayory and so 
May alwayes be, as much as he is now. 



For the Five Members^ they so richly thrive, 
TheyMc but continue alwayes Members Five. 
Oncly Pym doth his naturall right enforce, 
By the Mothers side he's Master of the Horse, 
Most shall have Places by these popular tricks, 
The rest must be content with Bishopricks, 

For 'tis 'gainst Superstition your intent, 
First to root out that great Church Ornament^ 
Money and Lands ; your swords, alas, are drawne. 
Against the Bishop^ not his Capy or Lawne, 

O let not such loud Sacriledge beein. 
Tempted by Henries rich successefull sinne. 
Henry the Monster King of all that 'age ; 
Wilde in his Lusty and wilder in his Kage. 
Expefl not you his Fate, though Hotham thrives 
In imitating Henries tricke for IViveSy 
Nor fewer Churches hopes then IVives to see 
Buriedy and then their Lands his owne to bee. 

Ye boundlesse Tyr[a]ntSy how doe you outvy 
Th' Athenian Thirtyy Romes Decemviri ? 
In Rage, Injustice, Cruelty as farre 
Above those men, as you in number are. 
What Mysteries of Iniquity doe we see? 
New Prisons made to defend Liberties 
Where without cause, some are undone, some dy. 
Like men bewitchty they know not hoWy nor w/^. 
Our Goods forced from us for Propriety* s sake ; 
And all the Reall Non-sence which ye make. 
Ship-money was unjustly ta'ne, ye say ; 
Unjustlier farre you take the Ships away. 
The High-Commission you calld Tyrannie, 
Ye did ; Good God ! what is the High-Committee ? 
Ye said that gifts and bribes Preferments bought. 
By Money and B/oud too, they now are sought. 
To the kings will the Lawes men strove to draw ; 
The Subjects will is now become the Law. 
'Twas fear'd a New Religion would begin ; 
All new Religions now are entred in. 
The King Delinquents to protect did strive ; 
What Clubs, Pikes, Halberts, Lighters, sav'd the Five? 



You thinke the ParRanuntj like jour State of Grace^ 

What ever sinnes men doe, they keepe their place. 

Invasions then were fear'd against the Statiy 

And Strode swore that last jreare would be ^Eighty-Eight. 

You bring in Forraine aid to your desienes ; 

First those great Forraim Forces of Divines^ 

With which Ships from America were fraught; 

Rather may stinking Tobacco still be brought 

From thence, I say; next ye the Scots invite, 

Which ye terme Brotherly Assistants right; 

For with them you intend England to share: 

They, who, alas, but younger Brothers are, 

Must have the Monies for their Portion \ 

The Houses and the Lands will be your owne. 

We thanke ye for the wounds which we endure, 

WhiFst scratches and slight pricks ye seeke to cure. 

We thanke ye for true reall feares at last. 

Which free us from so ma[n]y false ones past. 

We thanke ye for the Bloud which fats our Coasty 

(That fiitall debt paid to great Str affords Ghost.) 

We thanke ye for the ills received, and all 

Which by your diligence in good time we shall. 

We thanke ye, and our gratitudes as great 

As yourSj when you thank'd God for being beat. 

A. C. 







Adled before 

Prince CHARLS 


At Trinity-CoUedg in Cambridge^ 
upon the twelfth of March^ 1641. 

Written by 

Printed for JOHN HOLDEN at the 
Anchor in the New-Exchange, 


The Aftors Names. 

CAptain Blade the Guardian. 
0[/]i/ Truman, a teasty old man, 
Toung Truman his Son^ in love with Lucia. 
Col Cutter a sharking Souldier\ r j ^ ^l hvj l 

Dogrel a sharking Po%asUr ] MT'" a/ the fVtdows h^. 

Puny a young Gallant^ a pretender to wit, 

Lucia Neece and Ward to Captain Blade, in love with young 

Aurelia daughter to Blade. 

Widow, [an] old Puritan^ Landlady to Colonel Cutter anJ Dogrel. 
Tabytha her Daughter, 

Jaylors, Servants, and Fidlers. 

The Scene London. 

1 60 



WHo says the Times do Learning disallow? 
\^*r\is falser *twas never honoured so as now 
When you appear j great Princey our night is done: 
Tou are our Morning-star^ and shall Vour Sun, 
But our Scene's London noWj and by the rout 
We perish if the Roundheads he about : 
For now no ornament the head must wear^ 
No BaySj no Mitrey not so much as Hair. 
How can a Play pass safely^ when we knowy 
Cheapside^Cross falls for making but a show? 
Our onely hope is thiSy that it may be 
A Play may pass tooj made ex tempore. 
Though other Arts poor and neglected grow^ 
They'll admit Poetry^ which was always so, 
BesideSy the Muses of late times have bin 
SanSfifPd by the Verse of Master Prin. 

But we contemn the fury of these daySy 
And scorn as much their Censure as their Praise. 
Our MusCy blest PrincCy does onely on you relie ; 
Would gladly livey yet not refuse to die. 
Accept our hastie zeal; a thing that's played 
Ere *tis a Playy and a6ied ere *tis made. 
Our Ignorancey but our Duty tooy we show: 
I would all ignorant people would do so. 
At other timeSy expe^ our Wit and Art ; 
Tins Comedy is aSied by the Heart, 

c. n. L j6i 

The Guardian. 

A&. I. Scaen. i. 

JVidoWy Tabytha^ Colonel Cutter^ Dogrel. 

Cutter. T)Rithce widow be not incens'd, we'll shew our selves 
X like yong Lords shortly ; and you know, I Hope, 
they use to pay their debts. 

tVid. ly you talk of great matters, I wis, but Fm sure 
I could never see a groat yet of your money. 
Dog. Alas, we carry no silver about us. 
That were mechanical and base; 

Gold we about us bring : 
Gold, thou art mighty in each place. 
Of Metals Prince and King. 
Why I tell you my pockets have not been guilty of any small 
money in my remembrance. 

fVid. I know not, but all things are grown dear of late; 
our Beef costs three shillings a stone, and the price of corn \s 
rais'd too. 

Taby. Nay, mother, coals are rais'd too, they say. These 
things you think cost nothing. 

Dog. Nay, Taby t ha y Mistress Taby t ha! ifaithlaw now ITl 
make a Psalm for you, and be but peaceable. 
Contain thy tongue, and keep it in 
Within thy mouths large prison. 
Both jars, and also many a sin 
From out the mouth has risen. 
I'm onely for Odes, by the Muses, and the quickest for them, 
I think, in the Christian world, take in Turks, Infidels, Jews 
and all. 



Cutt, Have but a little patience, widow; well — ^I'll say 
this for thee, thou art the honestest Landlady upon the fiice of 
the earth, which makes me desire to live in your house ; and 
you shall not lose by't: do but mark the end. 

fF'id. I stand not so much upon that; but I use to ha' 
Lawyers in my house, such civil compleat gentlemen in their 
Sattin doublets (I warrant you) and broad ru£, as passes ; and 
Courtiers, all to be lacM and slasht, and fine fellows as you shall 
see in a sununers day ; they would not say Why do ye this ? to 
a woman : and then Knights. 

Tab. I, and Gentlemen too, mother. 

ff^d. But you, forsooth, come in drunk every night, and 
fall a swearing as if you would rend the house in two, and then 
mumble and tumble my daughters cloathes, she says. 

Tab, I, and would have 

Cutt. What would we have done ? 

Tab. Nay no good, I warrant you. 

ff^id. And then you drink up a kilderkin of small beer 
next morning. 

Dog. All this shall be corrected and amended. Landlady: 
yes &ith. Cutter^ thou must repent, thou hast been to blame 

ff^. Besides, you are always so full of your fripperies, 
and are always a grinning and sneering at every thing : I was 
wont to have sober boorders in my house, and not such hee-hee- 
beeing fellows. 

Tab. Nay, they mock'd and fleer'd at us as we sung the 
Psalm the last Sunday-night. 

Cutt. That was that mungrel Rhymer; by this light, he 
envies his brother Poet honest john Sternholdy because he cannot 
reach his heights. 

Wul. O the fiither ! the Colonel's as full of waggery as 
an egge's full of meat : I warrant, M. Dogrel^ what you get 
by him you may e*en put i' your eye, and ne'er see the worse 

Cutt. Well, and how dost ifaith now, honest Landlady? 
when shall we walk again into Moor-fields, and rejoyce at the 
Queens Cake-house? 

Dog. r\\ bespeak Cakes, and Ale o'th' purpose there; and 
thou shalt eat stew'd Prunes, little Tabytha^ till thy smock drop 

L 2 163 


again. A word i' you[r] ear, Landlady : Can you accommodate 
us with two shillings? 

To morrow ere the rosic finger'd morn 
Starts from Tithonus bed, as Authors write; 
Ere Phoebus cry Gee-hoe unto his team, 
We will restore again, and thank you for your pain. 

Cutt, ril tell you a secret, Landlady: Captain Blade and 
I shall be call'd shortly to the Court; the King has taken 
notice of our deserts: I say no more: though yet thou 
scorn'st mc, Tabythoy I'll make thee a Lady one day. Will 
you lend, widow? Great affairs bid me make haste. 

JVid, I care not much if I trust you for once : Come in 
and take it. 

Dog, Then Mistress let me lead you thus. 

And as we go let's buss. 
Tab. Buss me no bussings. O lord, how you tumble my 
gorget ! Exeunt. 

Aft. I. Scaen. 2. 

Captain Blade^ solus. 

I could now be as melancholy as an old scabbie Masti£^ or 
the Lions in the Tower: 'twere a good humour to repent. 
Well, Captain, something must be done, unless a man could 
get true gems by drinking, or, like a mouse in a cheese, enlarge 
his house-room by eating. Four hundred pound a yeer 
cashier'd ? Four hundred, by this light. Captain. All my 
comfort is, that now the usurer's damn'd ; and now that nig- 
gardly threescore and ten withered chap-fain Puritanical thin^ 
his wife, refuses to marry mc : I would see her burnt for an old 
witch before I'd take her for a wife, if she had not Agues, 
Squinancies, Gouts, Cramps, Palsies, Apoplexies, and two dozen 
of diseases more then S. Thomas Hospital; and if she live 
long with all these, I'm sure she'll kill me quickly. But let her 
be damn'd with her husband : Bring some drink, boy ; Tm 
foxt, by this light, with drinking nothing yet. 



A6k. I. Scaen. 3. 

B/adf^ Cutter^ Dogrel. 

Blade. What are ye come? Bring us a Tun then, and 
that so big, that that of Heidelberg may seem but hke a barrel 
of pickl'd Oysters to*t. Welcome Snapsack, welcome little 
vermin of Parnassus : how is't, my Laureate Rhymer ? dost 
thou sing Fortune my foe still with thy brother Poet ? 

Dog. Yc Muses nine assist my verse, 
That dwell by Helicon along; 
Captain Blades praise I will rehearse, 
With lyre and with song. 

Bla. Why this right Ballad, and they hobble like the 
fellow with the wooden leg that sings them. And how dost, 
man o' blood? 

Cutt. As well as a man of worth can do in these days, 
where deserts are so little regarded : if Wars come once, who 
but Cutter? who else but Colonel Cutter? God save you. 
Colonel Cutter y erf the Lords; the Ladies they smile upon 
Colonel Cutter^ and call Colonel Cutter a proper Gentleman : 
every man strives who shall invite Colonel Cutter to dinner: 
not a Cuckoldly creditor dares pluck me by the cloak, and say. 
Sir, you forgot your promise, I'm in a strait for moneys, my 
occasions force me, or the like. 

Bla. Cheer up, my Hercules upon a signe, I have a plot 
for yc, which if it thrive, thou shalt no more lie sunning in a 
bowling-alley, nor go on special holidays to the three-peny 
Ordinary, and then cry It pleases my humor better then to dine 
at my Lord Maiors. 

Cutt. Would we had some drink here to stop your mouth. 

Bla. No more be sick two or three days while thy boots 
are vamping: no more outswear whores in a reckoning, and 
leave the house in an anger. 

Cut. Ha* you done ? 

Bla. Nor sup at Taverns with Radishes : nor for a meals 
meat overthrow the King of Spain of the Hollanders when you 



please : nor when you go to bed produce ten several Tavern 
snufis to make one pipe of Tobacco. 

Cut, 'Slid would I had one here. 

Bla. Nor change your name and lodging as often as a 
whore ; for as yet, if you had liv'd like a Tartar in a cart, (as 
you must die, I fear, in one) your home could not have been 
more uncertain. Your last Gests were these : From a Water- 
mans house at the Banks side, (marry you stay'd there but a 
small while, because the fellow was jealous of his wife) passing 
o'er like great King Xerxes in a Sculler, you arriv'd at a 
Chandlers house in Thames-street, and there took up your 
lodging. The day before you should have paid, you vralkt 
abroad, and were seen no more ; for ever after the smell of the 
place ofFended you. Next, you appear'd at an Ale-house i'th' 
Covent-Garden, like a Duck that dives at one end of the pond, 
but rises unexpectedly at the other. But that place (though 
there was Beer and Tobacco there) by no means pleas'd you ; 
for there dwelt so many cheaters thereabouts, that you could 
not live by one another ; they spoil'd your trade quite. Then 
from a Shoo-makers, (as you entitl'd him \ marry some authora 
call him a Coblcr) to a Basket-makers; from thence to the 
Counter : from thence, after much benevolence, to a Barbers ; 
changing more lodgings then Pythagoras his soul did* At 
length, upon confidence of those new breeches, and the scour- 
ing of that everlasting BufF, you ventur'd upon the widows, 
that famous house for boorders, and are by this time hoysing up 
your sails, I'm sure ; the next fair winde y'are gone. 

Cut, I wonder, Captain, among so many rascally houses, 
how I happened to miss yours. 'Tis true, I have not lien leaguer 
always at one place: Souldiers must remove their tents: 
Alexander the Great did it an hundred times. 

Bla. Now to the words of comfort — drink first— then 
Lordings listen all. 

Dog, We do, both great and small. 
O my conscience this cup of wine has done my genius good. 

Bla, When first my brother departed — 

Dog, 'Twas poorly spoken, by this day. 

Bla, He committed his daughter and estate to my care; 
which if she either di'd, or married without my consent, he 
bequeath'd all to me. Being five yeers gone, he died. 

1 66 


Dog. How firail is humane life! Well sung the divine Poet 
Like t9 the damask rose you see^ 
Or like the blossom on the tree^ 
Or like^ &c. 

CutU Sirrah, Trundle, either hear out peaceably, or I shall 
cut jour ears off. Proceed, Captain. 

Bla. I fidling into ill company, yours, or some other such 
idle fellows, began to be misled, could drink and swear, nay, at 
last, whore sometimes too ; which courses having now at last 
made me like Job in every thing but patience ; your Landlady 
(for to her husband my estate was morgag'd) I have sought all 
means to marry. 

Dog. That Niobe! that Hecuba! 

Bla. Pish ! I could have lien with either of the two, so't 
had been before Hecuba was turn'd into a bitch, or t'other into 
a stone : for though I hate her worse then small beer. 

Cutt. Or pal'd wine. 

Dog. Or proverbs and Latine sentences in discourse. 

Cutt. Or a Sermon of two hours long. 

Bla. Or Dogrels verses, or what you will else ; yet she has 
money, blades; she would be a Guiana or Peru to me, and we 
should drink four or five yeers securely, like Dutchmen at a 
Wedding. But hang her, let her die and go to hell, 'tis onely 
that can warm her : she scorns me now my money's gone. 

Dog. Thus Pride doth still with Beauty dwell. 
And like the Baltick ocean swell. 

Bla. Why the Baltick, Dogrel? 

Dog. Why the Baltick? This tis not to have read the 

Bla. Now if my neece should marry, pnestOy the means 
are gone; and I must, like some Gentleman without fear or 
regard of the gallows, betake my self to the high-way, or else 
cheat like one of you, and tremble at the sight of a pillory. 
Therefore — (prick up your ears, for your good angel speaks) 
upon conditions of share, I marry her to one of you. 

Both. I but how. Captain ? how ? 

Bla. Why either she shall have one of you, or no body; 
for if she nurry without my consent, the money's mine own : 
and she'll be haiig'd first i'th' Friers rope, ere she turn Nun. 

Cutt. I'll be a Franciscan, if she do. 



Bla. Not a Carthusian, I warrant thee, to abstain from 
flesh. Thou mightst well have taken holy Orders, if it were 
not for chastity and obedience : their other vow of never carry- 
ing money about thee, thou hast observed from thy youth up. 

Dog. I'll have her, by Mercury \ I have two or three 
Love-odes ready made ; they can*t chuse but win her. Cuttery 
adore me. Cutter y thou shaft have wine thy fill, though thou 
couldst out-drink Xerxes his army. 

Cutt. You get her? what with that Ember week-face of 
thine ? that Rasor of thy nose, those ears that prick up like a 
Puritanical button-makers of Amsterdam? thou lookst as if 
thou never hadst been fed since thou suck'dst thy mothers 
milk : thy cheeks begin to fall into thy mothers mouth, that 
thou mightst eat 'em. Why thou very lath with a thing cut 
like a face atop, and a slit at the bottom ! I am a man, and can 
do her service ; here's metal, boy. 

Dog. 'Tis i' your face then. 

Cutt. I can fight her quarrels, boy, and beget on her new 

Dog. Yes — thou art a very Achilles — in the swiftness of 
thy feet : but thou art a worser coward then any of the TrainM 
Bands : I'll have a school-boy with a cat-stick take away thy 
Mistress from thee. Besides, what parts hast thou ? hast thou 
scholarship enough to make a Brewers clerk? Canst thou read 
the Bible ? I'm sure thou hast not. Canst thou write more 
then thine own name? and that in such vile characters, that 
most men take them for Arabian pot-hooks; and some think 
thou dost but set thy mark when thou writest thy name. I'm 
vers'd, Cutter in the whole Encyclopaedic, a word that's Greek 
to you. I am a Wit, and can make Greek verses ex tempvrt, 

Bla. Nay not so; for if you come to your verses, Dogrel^ 
I'm sure you ha' done with wit. He that best pleases her, take 
her a Gods name, and allow the tothcr a pension : What think 
you, gallants? 

Cutt. Agreed ; thou shalt have three pound and a cloak. 

Dog. Away, you puff, you kickshaw, you quaking custard. 

Cutt. Prethee be patient, thou shalt have lace to't too. 

Bla. Pox take you both ; drink and be friends. 

Dog. Here's to you, Cutter. I'm something cholerick, 
and given to jeering : but what, man ? words are but winde. 



Bla. FU call her in. Why boy within th[er]e, call my 
neece quickly hither. 

Dog. I'm undone ; I ha' left my Ode at home : undone, 
by Mercurjy unless my memory help me. 

Cutt. Thus and thus will I accoast her: I'm the man; 
Dogrek clothes will cast him. 

A&. I. Scaen. 4. 

Bladcy Cutter y Dogrely Lucia, 

Bla, When she has seen you both, one void the room, and 
so wooe by turns. 

DogreL I'll go out first, and meditate upon my Ode. 

Bla. Welcome, dear neece; I sent for you to entertain 
these Gentlemen my friends : and heark you, neece, make much 
of them ; they are men of worth and credit at the Court, 
though they go so plain; that's their humour onely: And 
heark you, neece, they both love you ; you cannot chuse amiss. 
I ha' some business Your servant. Gentlemen. 

Imc» Not chuse amiss ? indeed I must do. Uncle, if I should 
chuse again. Y'are welcom. Gentlemen. 

Cutt. I thank you, fairest Lady : I am a Souldier, Lady, 
and cannot complement ; but I ha' travell'd over all the world, 
Germany, Morocco, Swethland, Persia, France, Hungary, 
Caleput, Peru. 

D9g, 'Slid, how he shufHes all the Countries together like 
lots in a hat! 

Cut. Yet I never saw before so fair a Lady. I cannot 
complement i' faith. 

Imc, Y'have taken a long journey. Sir, 'twere best 
To rest your self a little : Will you sit ? 
Will you, Sir, take a seat too? 

Dog, 'Slife I can't say my Ode now. I'll wait upon you 
presently. Exit, 

Cutt, Fair Lady — (This 'tis to converse with none but 
whores: I know not what to say to her.) 
You are the onely mistress of my thoughts. 
My service to you. Lady. Drinks to her, 



Luc, To me, Sir, do you speak, or to the wine ? 

Cutt, To vou, by Mars. Can you love me, Beauty ? Vm 
sure your uncle prefers no man under the cope — 

Luc, Soft, Sir, d'ye use to take in Towns so soon ? 
My uncle gave an equal commendation 
To both of you. 

Cutt, What? to that mole-catcher i'th* old Serge? he 
brought him in for humour, to make you sport. I'll tell you 
what he is. 

Luc. Pray do. Sir. 

Cutt. The very embleme of poverty and poor poetry : the 
feet are worse patcht of his Rhymes, then of his Stockines : if 
one line forget it self, and run out beyond his elbow, while the 
next keeps at home (like him) and dares not shew his head ; he 
calls that an Ode. Your uncle and I maintain him onelv for 
sport, ril tell you how I found him \ marry walking in Moor- 
fields cross arm'd: he could not pluck his hat over his eyes, 
there were so many holes in it: he had not so much linen 
about him as would make a cuiF for a Bartlemew-foyr-baby. 
Marry the worst I like in him is, he will needs sometimes, m 
way of gratitude, present me with a paper of Verses. Here 
comes the vermin. 

A£t. I. Scaen. 5. 

CuttcTy Dogrely Lucia, 

ril leave him alone with you, that you may have the better 
sport : he'll not shew half his tricks before me. I think I ha* 
spoil'd his markets. Now will I stand behinde the hangings, 
and hear how she abuses him. I know by her eye she loves me. 
Cutter^ thou'rt blest. Exit. 

Dog. Fairer, O fairer then the Lilly, 
Then Primerose fair, or DafFa[d]illy ; 
Less red then thy cheeks the Rose is. 
When the Spring it doth disclose his 
Leaves; thy eyes put down the star-light; 
When they shine, we see afar — light. 
O these eyes do wound my heart 
With pretty little Cupids dart; 



Wounded I am with deadly smart; 

The pain raigns in every part. 

Thy beauty and thy great desart 

Draw me as horses draw a Cart. 

O that I had Rhetoricks art — impart — fart — mart — start. 

To move thee; for I would not start 

TiU I— 

Luc. Take heed, Sir, you'll be out of breath anon. 
Y'ha' done enough for any honest Poet. 

E>eg. Fairest nymph, I swear to thee, 
The later part was made ex tempore! 
Not a bit of prose goes down with me. 

Lue. (I must know't.) 
BAay I be so bold as to enquire of you 
Your friends name that was here; he seems to be 
A man of worth and quality. Cut. That's I. 

D»g. Quality? yes? Cut. That's I again. 

If whoring, drinking, cheating, poverty and cowardice be 
qualities, he's one of the best qualified men in the Christian 
world. Cut. O the devil I 

Luc. He's a great traveller. 

D»g. In suburbs and by-lanes; he never heard a gun but 
in Moor-fields or Finsbury at a mustering, and quak'd then as 
if they had been the Spaniards : I'll undertake a Pot-gun shall 
dismay him. 

Cutt. A plague upon him — 

Dag. Those breeches he wears, and his hat, 1 gave him: 
till then, he went like a Paper-mill all in rags, and like some 
old statue in a ruin'd Abbey. About a month ago, you might 
ha* seen him peep out at a grate, and cry, Kinde merciful Gentle- 
metiy fir the Lards sate, poor prisoners undone by suretiship, and 
the like. 

Cut. Contain thy self, great spirit ; keep in a while. 

Dag, We call him Colonel in an humour onely. The 
fiuniture of his chamber (for now, at mine and some other 
Gentlemens charges, he has got one) is half a chair, and an 
earthen chamber-pot, the bottom of an inkhorn for a candle- 
stick, and a dozen of little gally-pots with salve in 'um ; for he 
has more diseases — 

Cut. I can endure no longer. Enters. 



Dogrelj thou lyest ; there's my glove ; meet me an hour 

Dog. And there's mine. Pll put a good &ce on't; he 
dares not fight, Fm sure. 

Cut, Two hours hence 
Expedt the Saracens head; I'll do't, by heavens. 
Though hills were set on hills, and seas met seas, to guard 

I'd reach thy head, thy head, proud DogreL Exit. 

Luc, Nay, y'are both even : just such an ex'lent character 
He did bestow on you. Why thou vile wretch 
Go to the stews, the gaole, seek there a wife; 
Thou'lt finde none there but such as will scorn thee. 
Was thy opinion of my birth or fortune, 
My chastity or beauty (which I willingly 
Confess to be but small) so poor and lowe. 
That thou couldst think thy self a match for me? 
I'll sooner marry with my grave; for thou 
Art worscr dirt then that. See me no more. Exit, 

Dog, Scorn'd by a mistress? with a friend to fight? 
Hence, lighter Odes; I'll biting Satyrs write. Exit. 

AQi. I. Scaen. 6. 

Truman filius, Lucia, 

Tru, I must be gone, my Lucia \ I must leave 
My self, and thee, more then my self, behinde me. 
Thus parts the greedy usurer from his bags. 
With an heart heavier then those: he fixes 
His covetous eye upon the charming metal. 
As if he meant to throng those many pleasures 
Which several times would yceld, into one minute. 
With as much joy he kisses his lov'd Idol, 
As I do thee, to whom all gold compar'd, 
Seems but like Pebbles to the Diamond: 
And then he sighs, my Lucia, 

Luc. And weeps too, if, like us, he bid farewel. 
Why should your father be so cruel? 



TVb. He's old and angry, Lucia, very angry, 
And either has forgot his youthful days. 
Or else I'll swear he did not love my mother 
With half that noble heat that I do thee : 
For when he heard your uncles resolutions, 
Doubting your portion if wc two should marry, 
He forc'd me to an oath so strange, which though 
I then durst swear, I scarce dare now repeat; 
An oath ne'er more to see nor hear thee, Lucia, 
After the envious shortness of this hour, 
Without his leave. 

Luc. You will forget me quite then. 

TV*. Forget thee, Lucia? 'tis not death it self 
Has so much Lethe in't: I shall not chuse 
In the long sleep o'th' grave, but dream of thee. 
If it be true that souls which leave hid treasures 
(Being buried fu less peaceable then their gold) 
Walk up and down, and in their urns want rest. 
How will my ghost then wander, which has left 
Such precious wealth behinde it i Sure it will 
Desire to see thee, and I fear will fright thee, 
I would say more, but I shall weep anon. Exit, 

Luc. So quickly gone ! he might have staid, me thinks, 
A little longer, and 1 ow'd that happiness 
To the misfortune of his future absence. 
Whv did he swear to's father? I'm a fool. 
And know not what to say. 

A&. I. Scaen. 7. 

Truman tilius, Lucia. 

Tni, Stay, Lucia, prithee stay ; I had forgot 
The business which I came for. 

Luc. I owe much 
To your forgetfulness, my Truman : if 
It be such always, though you forget me, 
III pardon you. What was your ousiness, pray i 

Tm. To kiss your hand, my dearest. 


Luc. Was that all? 
I'm glad to sec j'our grief so small and light, 
That it can finde leasurc to complement: 
*Tis not like mine, believe me. 

Tru. Was not that business, Lue'iaf 
In my opinion now, th'afiairs of Kings, 
The honourable troubles of a Counsellor, 
Are frivolous and light, compar'd to this. 
May I not kiss your lips too, dearest Lucia f 
I have an inward dropsie; and my remedy 
Enflamcs my thirst: 'tis that best Neflar onely 
Which has the power to quench it. 

Luc. If there be Neftar there. 
It was your lip that brought it thither first; 
And you may well be bold to claim your own. 
Shall we sit down and talk a little while? 
They will allow us sure a parting-time. 

Tru. And that I would not change, not this poor minute 
In which I see, and hear, and touch thee, Lucia, 
For th'age of Angels, unless thy lov'd presence 
Make a heav'n there for me too. 
What shall I do to bring the days t'an end? 
Sure they'll be tedious when I want thy company. 

Luc. I'll pray for the success of our chaste loves, 
And drop down tears for beads. 

Tru. I'll read o'er the large volume of the creatures; 
And where I finde one full of grace and beauty, 
I'll gaze and think on that; for that's thy piflurc. 

Luc. Whatever kinde of Needle-work I make, 
Thy name I'll intermingle, till at last. 
Without my mindes conjunftion and consent, 
The needle and my hand shall both agree 
To draw thy name out, 

Tru. I will gather flowers, 
Turn wanton in the truness of my love. 
And make a posie too, where Lucia 
Shall be mysteriously writ in flow'rs: 
They shall be fair and sweet, such as may paint 
And speak thee to my senses. 

fViihin. Mistress Lucia^ Lucia. 

Luc. I am call'd: farewel. 



Aft. I. Scaen. 8. 

Truman filius, Lucioy Aurelia, 

Aur. My fistther, cousin, would speak with you. 

Luc. m wait upon him. Exit* 

Aur. Will you be gone so soon, Sir? 

Tru. I must ofiend your father else. 

Aur. You would have stay'd longer with her, I'm sure. 

Tru. It may be so. Your servant, Lady. Exit. 

Aur. Contemn'd by all? while my proud cousin walks 
With more eyes on her then the moon: but I, 
Like some small petty star without a name, 
Cast unregarded beams. 

It must not bej I snatch of all those glories 
Which beauty or feign'd vertue crown her with. 
Till her short light confess her but a Comet. 
I love thee, Truman \ but since 'tis my fate 
To love so ill, I'll try how I can hate. 

Finis A^s primi. 

A&. 2. Scaen. i. 

Cuttery Dogrel. 

Cut. Come on, Dogrely now will I cut your throat. 

Dog. You'll be hang'd first. 

Cut. No, by this light. 

Dog. You'll be hang'd after then. 

Cut. I'll slice thee into steaks. 

Dog. I believe indeed thou art so hungry, thou couldst 
feed like a Cannibal. 

Cut. No, thou'lt be a dish for the devil j he'll dress thee at 
his own fire. You call'd me Coward: hadst thou as many 
lives as are in Plutarch^ I'd make an end of 'um. (I must 
daunt him, for fear he should fight with me.) I will not leave 



SO much blood in thee as will wet my nail : and for thjr flesh, 
ril mangle it in such manner, that the Crowes shall not know 
whether it were a mans body or no. 

Dog, (He was once a Coward, and I never heard yet of his 

Hear thou altitonant Jovty and Muses three. 
(Muses? a plague upon *um, I meant Furies.) 
Hear, thou altitonant Jove^ and Furies three. 

Cut, Nay then 
Leap from the leathern dungeon of my sheath. 
Thou Durindana brave. 
(Will nothing do ?) Come on, miscreant. They draw. 

Dog, Do, do, strike if thou dar'st. 

Cut, Coward, I'll give thee the advantage of the first push. 

Dog, I scorn to take any thing of thee, I. 

Cut, Thou hadst better eat up thy mothers soul, then 
touch me. 

Dog, If thou wilt not strike first, take thy life. 

Cut, I had rather die then give the first blowe, since thou 
hast said it. 

Dog, I see this quarrel, Cutter^ will come to a quart of 
wine: shall's go? 

Cut, How rash is anger! had not reason check'd me, 
I should have kill'd my Poet for a woman, 
A very woman. Let's sheath, Dogrel — 

A£l. 2. Scaen. 2. 

Cutter^ Dogrel^ Puny, 

Here's company; 'slid I'll fight then. 

Pun, How now, Paynims? fighting like two sea-fishes in 
a map? slaying and killing like horse-leaches? Why my little 
gallimaufry, what Arms and Arts? 

Dog, Tarn Martiy quam Mercurioj I. 'Slife, outbrav'd by 
a fellow that has no more valour in him then a womans Tailor? 

Cutt, By my fathers Soul, I'll kill him an he were an 



Pun. Hold ! stop I this Colonels spirit's all flame. 

Dog. 'Tis the flame of a flap-dragon then, for 'twill hurt no 

Cutt. Mr. Puny^ you do me wrong. 

Pun. What do ye mean bufles ? 

Cutt. 'Slife, an you hinder me Puny — 

Pun. Pox take you, kill one another and be hanged then, 
doc, stab, why don't ye? 

Cutt. At your command Mr. Puny ? I'll be forc'd by no 
man ; put up Dogrely wee'll fight for no mans pleasure but our 

Dog. Agreed, I'll not make another sport by murthering 
any man though he were a Tinker. 

Pun. Why now you speak like righteous Homuncles, ye 
ha' both great spirits, as big as Indian-whales, for wit and valour 
a couple of Phcenixes. 

Cut. *Tis my fiiult Puny\ I'm the resolutest man if I be 
but a little heated. Pox take't, I'm a fool for't. 

Dog. Give me thy hand. 

Cutt. I did not think thou hadst been so valiant, i'faith : 
I should have killed my self, if I had hurt thee in my fury. 

Dog. So should I by this hand. 

Pun. This is rare ! up and down like a game at chess. 

Dog. Why a game at chess more then any other ? 

Pun. A game at chess ? why-pox thou'rt a kinde of Poet 
I confess, but for wit you shall pardon me — ther's as much in 
Tom Coriats shooes. But prithee, why did you two Pythagorians 
fall out ? 

Dog. A trifle, onely a Mistris. 

Cutt. A pox take her, I woo'd her in an humor onely, 
I had rather nuury a wench of ginger-bread, they're both of a 

Dog. And then her mouth's as wide as a Crocodiles, her 
kisses devour a man. 

Cutt. Her eyes are like the eyes of a needle, and her nose 
pointed like that ; I wonder her hcc is no cleaner, for those two 
perpetually water it : As for her lower parts, blessed are they 
that live in ignorance. 

Pun. What an Heliogabalus make you of this wench? 
would I could see this Barbara Pyramidum. 

C n. M 177 


Dog. Hang her, she looks like a gentlewoman upon the top 
of a ballad. 

Cutt, Shavers, who i'the divels name would you guess to 
be my Mistris? 

Pun, Some wench at a red lattice. 

Dog, Some beast that stincks worse then Thames-street. 

Pun, And looks like a shoulder of mutton stufit with 

Cutt. 'Faith guess who. 

Pun, 'Tis impossible among so many whores. 

Cutt, 'Faith Tabithoy none but gentle Mistris Tabitha. 

Dog, We shall have him turn Brownist now, and read 
Comments upon the Revelations. 

Cutt, Thou hast hit it Dogrel: Tie put my self into a rare 
garbe ; BuiFe, thou must off, truly BuiFe thou must. 

Pun, 'Slid a good humour; I could find in my heart to 
change religion too. 

Dog. Pox ! no body will change with me, I'm sure. But 
canst thou put off swearing with BufFe ? canst thou abstain in 
the middle of long grace from crying a plague upon him, the 
meats cold ? canst thou repeat scripture enough to make a 
Puritan ? Fmc sure for understanding thou'lt be like enough to 
any of 'um. 

Cutt, Let mc alone, Tic deal with no oath above gods 
fatlikins, or by my truly : exclaim upon the sickness of drinking 
healths, and call the PLiycrs rogues, sing psalms, hear le£tures; 
and if I chance to preach my self, woe be to the adt, the obje^ 
the use, and application. 

Pun, Thou art an everlasting stinker Colonel, *tis a most 
potent humour, thcr's mustard in't, it bits i'the nose. 

Cutt. Dogrely take heed of swearing before Tabitha. 

Dog, If I look not as grave as a Judge upon the bench, let 
me be hanged for't. 

Pun, Come away Physitians ; 'slid I'le be of some Religion 
ere't be long too. 



A9l 2. Scaen. 3. 

Truman pater, Truman filius. 

Tru. p. You hear me — 

Tru. f. Sir— 

Tru. p. Sir me no sirs: I say you shall marry Mistris 

Tru. f. I hope sir — 

Tru, p. I, when I bid you do any thing, then you are a 
hoping ; well, what do you hope sir ? 

Tru. f. That you'ld be pleas'd — 

Tru. p. No, I will not be pleas'd till I see your manners 
mended: marry gap, you'le be teaching your father. 

Tru. f. I am — 

Tru. p. Go to, you*re a foolish boy, and know not what's 
good for your self : you are ? what are you, pray ? we shall ha' 
you crow over your father. 

Tru. f. I shall observe — 

Tru. p. You will not sure? will you observe me? 'tis 
very well if my son come to observe me i'my old days, you will 
observe me ? will ye ? 

Tru. f. I mean sir — 

Tru. p. You shall mean what I please, if you be mine : 
I must be bound to your meaning? 

Tru. f. It may be — 

Tru. p. You 11 teach me what may be, will you ? do not 
I know what may be? 'tis fine, 'tis very fine: now i'your 
wisdom, now what may be? 

Tru. f. That Captain Blade— 

Tru. p. That what? what can he do? I'll sec his nose 
cheese before you shall marry his neece. Captain Blade\ a 
swaggering companion ; let 'um swagger, and see what he gets 
by his swaggering; I would have swaggered with him for his 
cars when I was a young man. And though I ha' done 
swaggering — well — I shall meet with Captain Blade^ I hold him 
a tester on't — 

Tru. f. (Would he were gone.) I shall obey — 

M 2 179 


Tru, p. Obey me no obevings, but do what I command 
you. ril to the Widow, and talk about her portion : stay ! 
I had almost forgot to tel you ; oh — Mistris TaUtba's a ver- 

tuous maid, a very reh'gious wench ; TH go speak concerning her 

Tru, f. It may be sir — 

Tru. p. You'll never leave this trick, you'll be at your 
may-bees; take heed boy, this humour will undoe thee— she 
cannot have less then three thousand pounds : well — ^I'U go see — 
and d'ee hear ? she goes plain, and is a good huswife ; which of 
your spruce mincing squincing dames can make bone-lace like 
her? o tis a notable, apt, quick, witty girle — Fll goe to her 
mother about the portion. Exit 

Tru. f. About this time her letter promised me a meeting 
here : destiny it self will sooner break its word then she. Dear 
Mistris, there's none here besides your vassal. She's ready — 

A6k. 2. Scaen. 4. 

Truman filius, Lucia veil'd. 

Ha! why this covering? 

This is mistery darker then the veile 

That clouds thy glorious face; unless t'encrcase 

My desire first, and then my joy to see thee, 

Thou cast this subtler night before thy beauty. 

And now like one scorched with some raging feaver, 

Upon whose flames nor dew nor sleep hath fain, 

I could begin to quarrel with the darkness, 

And blame the slothful rising of the morn ; 

But with more gladness entertain't, then they, 

Whose icy dwellings the cold Bare orelooks. 

When after half the yeers continued night. 

And the most tedious night of all but death ; 

A sudden light shot from their horizon. 

Brings the long wisht-for day, which with such glory 

Leaps from the East, as doth thy mateless beauty. 

When thus the mist departs — yjff^^ '* P*^ 

Why shrinkst thou back? atuaj thi 

I prithee let me see thee, Lucia. veil. 



I'd rather some good power would strike me blinde, 

Then lose the cause for which I love mine eyes: 

At least speak to me: well may I call it night, 

When silence too has Joyn'd it self to darkness. 

And did I not swear I would not — 

Thy witty goodness can save others too 

From sinning : I had quite forgot my oath : 

Yet sure an oath forc'd from a lovers tongue 

Is not recorded in heav'ns dreadful book, 

But scattered loosely by that breath that made it. 

However thy blest Letter makes me patient: 

Thou giv'st all vertues: I can love thee thus. 

And though thy skin were such, that it might seem 

A black veil cast by nature o'er thy body. 

Yet I wo\ild love thee, Lucia: every night, 

Which is the harvest-time of all our hopes. 

Will make thee as th'art now; and dost thou think 

I shall not love thee most then ? 

We trifle here: PU follow thee, O heaven; 

Prosper the wise invention which it hath taught thee. 


Aft. 2. Scaen. 5. 

Captain Blade^ Servant. 

Bla. Is he carried to prison ? that damn'd Urinal-monger, 
that stinking Clyster-pipe-rogue ! that ignorant Sattin cap ! He 
has not so much physick as would cure the tooth-ach. A slave 
that poisons Gentlemen, to keep his hand in ure. Must a slave 
come up stairs, mount the bank for money, and not be dis- 
honouretd down? He look'd as patiently then, as any Fidler 
need to do. Give me some small beer, and the godly book ; 
I must not go to hell; there are too many Physitians there. 
I was never in a worse disposition to die, in my life : my guts 
begin to squeak already. Nothing vexes me now, but that 
I shall stand pidtur'd in a Ballad, with Beware the physitiany or 
some such sentence, coming out of my mouth. I shall be sung 
in Smithfield : not a blinde Ale-house, but the life and miserable 



death of captain Blade shall be pasted up in : there shall I be 
brought confessing my sins at the later end, and giving good 
counsel. (You will be jumbling still.) Ten to one but 
Dogrel makes an Epitaph ; there's another mischief. Here, take 
the book again ; Fll not trouble my brain now I'm a dying. 

Serv. Here's the widow, Sir, and her daughter, come to see 
you ; and they have brought M. Knockdown to comfort you. 

Bla. How ? everlasting Knockdown ? 'Slid, will they trouble 
a man when he's a dying ? Sirrah, blockhead, let in Knockdown^ 
and ril send thee to heaven before me. I ha' but an hour to 
live, my Physitian says, and that's too little for him to preach in. 

Serv. Shall I let the widow come in ? 

Blade. That's a she-Knockdown too. Well, let her come 
in ; I must bear all torments patiently now. But, rogue, take 
heed of yoseph Knockdown : thou shalt not live with ears, if 
Joseph Knockdown enter. A plague upon all Physitians. 

A&. 2. Scaen. 6. 

Capt. Bladey IVidoWy Tabytha, 

Wid. How do you ? how is't. Sir ? 

Bla. Cut off i'the flower o' my age, widow. 

Wtd. Not so. Sir, you are old, neighbour, God he knows. 

Bla. V the very flower, i'faith. That damn'd quacksalver. 

Tab. He look'd like a rogue; a man might know him 
for a rogue, by his very eyes. Take comfort. Sir; ye know 
we must all die sooner or later. Our life is compared to a 
flower ; and a flower is subjcdt to uncertainty, as M. Knockdown 

Bla. O the torture of such a tongue ! Would I were dead 

JVid. Alas, good man! his tongue, I warrant ye, is hot: 
look how he raves, daughter ! I have heard, indeed, that many 
rave when they are poison'd. Think o' your sins. Sir. 

Bla, I prithee molest me not ; there's none of *um worth 
thinking of. I'm hotter then a dozen of Fevers : give me a cup 
of Sack there : Shall I die thirsty ? 



fVid. By no means, M. Blade. Fellow, take heed what ye 
give him : he must ha' none ; it breeds inflammations. 

Bla. I'll never repent without a cup of Sack. Do, do, 
chuse whether you'll ha'me sav'd or no. 

fVid. For bis souls sake then, I'll drink to him in a cup of 
Sack. Drinks. 

Bla. To my good journey, widow. Sirrah, fill me a brim- 
mer. Here, Tahytba. Drinks, 

A6k. 2. Scsen. 7. 

Bladiy IVidoWy Tabytha^ Aurelia^ Cutter^ DogreL 

Aur. Stand to 't now. 

Dog. I'll virarrant you I'll stand like a knight o'the post : I'll 
forswear with the devil. As for Cutter^ he has don't fourty 
times before a Judge already. 

Aur. My dearest father, though we cannot call 
The sentence of fate back that's past upon you. 
Yet heav'n has mixt some mercy with its anger. 
And shewn us the curst plotters of your ruine. 

Bla. How now, varlets? ye see I'm going to heaven, and 
yc must follow; but the Captain must be sav'd before the 
Colonel. Who art thou? a godly Weaver? 

Cut. I am not he that I was of old : what hath passed, is 
gone and vanisheth \ but what is now, remaineth. 

IVid. No I'll besworn is he not; never was Christian 
creature so alter'd, as they say. 

Tab. He said a prayer last night so zealously, that all the 
house heard him, did they not? Brother M. Cutter. 

Cut. Sister, I did pour out my self last night. Captain, 
y'are abus'd. 

Bla. A small abuse ; nothing but onely poison'd. 

Dog. Yes 'faith, we saw the Physitian, Mistress Lucia and 
Truman consulting all together: the Physitian pluck'd a box 
out, shew'd it them; they seem'd to approve: an 'oath of 
secresie we beard them take, but suspected nothing, by this 
hand. We honest men do seldom suspedt others. 

Bla. Is this true. Colonel ? 



Cut. Should I say it is not true, I should not tell the truth 
if I should say so. 

Bla, You swear 'tis true ? 

Cut. Before an Elder I shall swear. 

Bla. Aurelioy send for 'um immediately, as if I meant to see 
*um contradled; and bid the servants be ready to carry 'um 
away. I'll see 'um clapt up close before I die. 

Aur. I go, Sir. Exit. 

Aft. 2. Scaen. 8. 

Bladey JVidoWy Tabythoy Cuttery Dogrely Lucia. 

Luc. Dearest Uncle, 
I come to beg one boon of you, the last 
Which you can grant me, or I need to wish. 

Bla. Speak, gentle Neece. 

Luc. That since the love 'twixt Truman and my self 
Hath been so fixt, and (as our fortunes) equal, 
You will be pleas'd to seal with your last breath 
The confirmation of our loves, our Contract: 
And when your soul shall meet in heav'n my fathers, 
As foon as he has bid you welcome thither. 
He'll thank you for our marriage. 

Bla. Oh by all means: where's gentle M. Truman f He*s 
sorry for my death, good man, I warrant ye. Weep not for 
me, dear Neece, I know it greives you. Where's loving Mr. 
Truman ? 

Luc. Without Sir, waiting on your will, as on the voice of 
his good fate. 

Bla. Pray call him in. Exit Luc. 

Sirrah, fetch two or three more of my knaves in. 

Dog. Oh the dissembling of these women ; they're like a 
folded piflure, that every diversity of light represents divcrsly. 

Bla. Hang all women beside you and your daughter, widow : 
I could almost like Mahomets religion, for turning all the sex out 
of Heaven. 



A(9:. 2. Scsen. 9. 

Bladiy CutteTy Dogre/y fVidoWy Tabithay Truman filius, 

Lucia veil'd. 

Tru. *Tis as we wisht, dear Lady ; O this blest hour ! 

Bla. Away with 'um immediately, let 'um be sent to prison 

Tru. What means this rudeness? I understand not this 

Cutt. Ungratious children, ye have poysoned a most vertuous 
Souldier here. 

Tru. I poysoned ? what d'ye mean ? 

Bla, Away with 'um I say, they shall finde another place to 
answer for't. Exeunt ServantSy with Truman and Lucia. 

fVid. Hei ho ! what pitty 'tis. 

Cutt. Captain, prithee away with these two impertinences ; 
since you must dye, let's have a parting cup for shame. 

Bla. But thou art turn'd Apostate. 

Cutt. I did but fain all this *, I'm as very a Rogue as ever 
I was. 

Bla. Thou speakst righteously, we will not make a dry far- 
wcl on't. Widow, I have some business with these two ; shall 
I desire privacy a little while ? 

fVid. Fare ye well. Mr. Cuttery you can speak comfortably 
to him : I'll see you again anon. Oh the wickedness of these 
worldlings? Come Tabitha, Exeunt Widow and Tabitha. 

Bla. The Doftor says, I shall dye without pain ; therefore 
my sparks of Asi^ let's be merry for a while. Boy, fetch some 
wine and an hour-glass. 

Cutt. An hour-glass ! what emblem shall we have ? bring a 
sithe too; and this same lean, greedy, hungry Poet, shall aft 
Time here. Enter boy with wincy and an hour glass. 

Bla. Well said my little Pawn. So, thus I'll husband my 
time. According to my Emperick's computation I am to live 
an hour ; half which I do allot to drink with you, a quarter to 
settle some business; and the rest, to good meditations and 
repentance. How like ye this my gallants? 



Cutt, Most Logically divided; never Scholer divided mess 
better The boy fiU wine. 

Bla, How it sparkles ! Never be drunk again ? My Homer 
junior, have at thee ; this will string up thy Muse : rejoyce young 
frog of Hellicon, Drinks. 

Dog, No, rather let me weep, drop briny tears, 

Till I like Niobe— 

Cutt, There's a piece of her sticks in his throat still, drink 
it down DogreL 

Bla. Do, for when I am once gone, ye must c*cn like 
Mahumetansy count wine a thing forbidden. 

Cutt. Let's drink, let's drink, whilst life we have: 
You'll finde but cold drinking, cold drinking in the grave. 

Dog. A catch i'faith. 
Boy go down. 
And fill's the tother quart; 
That we may drink the Captains health, 
Before that we do part. 

Cutt. Why dost thou frown, thou arrant Clown &c. 

Bla. Ha hei boy's! another catch i'faith. 
And all our men were very very merry. 
And all our men were drinking, 

Cutt. One man o' mine. 

Dog. Two men o' mine, 

Bla. Three men o' mine, 

Cutt. And a man o' mine, 

Om. As we went by the way, were 
Drunk, Drunk, Damnable Drunk; 
And all our men were very very merry &c. 

Bla. Hei brave boys! now. Cutter^ thou art a pretious 

Cutt. And thou a puissant Captain. Some wou'd ha* pin'd, 
and kept a quarter, and howl'd at their death, and ha* been 
more froward and troublesome then a Citizens wife when she 
takes Physick. This is true valour. 

Dog. Sure he has dy'd before, he's so expert at it. 



A61 2. Scaen. lo. 

To these, old Truman. 

Bla. What savs old Priam to Achilles great ? 

Tru, *Tis well, Fm glad to see you in you[r] Priams ; but 
for all your Priams, and your Killisses, what ha' you done with 
my Son ? 

Bla. Thrice was thy HeSfor drawn about the walls. 

Gutt, Xanthus and Simoisy with his purple gore. 

Dog. Alas, and welladay! we are stain'd all o're. 

Om. Ha, ha, ha. 

Tru. *Tis very well, excellent well, all's well that ends 
well ; I say — I shall finde Law I hope. My Son Did in 
prison, and old Did laughed at here by Raggamuffins: 'Tis 
very excellent well ; I thank you gentlemen, I thank you 

Bla. 'Tis not so much worth i'feith Sir ; what do you mean 
Sir ? pray spare your courtesie, nay, I pray be covered Sir. 

TVk. It may be so, 'tis very likely Sir, an there be Law in 
Westminster — 

Cutt. — And what dost thou mean, old man ? 

Dog. — And what dost thou mean, old man ? 

Cutt. — If thou mean'st to live long, plump, lusty, and 
strong ; 

Dog. — Then take of the cup and the Can. 

Om. Ha, ha, ha. 

Tru. Well, I'm made a laughing stock, it seems. 

Bla. And good Sir — 

Tru. Yes, I am made the laughing stock ; I shall take some 
other course, I hold you a groat. Rest ye merry Gentlemen, 
I pray be merry, very very merry. 

Dog. Nay, you shall stay and drink first. 

Tru. Shall I, yadsauce? Strikes off 

Pray Sir, be you covered too. his hat. 

Bla. Come old Jethroy here's a cup of wine will stir thy 
brains again, they're mouldy now. 



Tru. I, you'd poyson mc, wouM you ? *tis very well if a 
man may be sufFered to poyson whom he pleases. 

Breakis the glass, 

Bla. No, your good Son has got the art of poysoning. 

Tru. My Son? Thou licst. My Son? 

B/a. If ye be raging Lyon-mad, d'ye see that door? Be 
gone to your Son, and take some juice of Opium : Thou wants 
sleep, Jethro. Truman offers to go «/, 

and turns hack again. 

Tru. There's Law, Captain. 

Bla. There is so; wou'd you'd go fetch it. 

Tru. Nay, there's none it seems. 

Bla. True, there shall be no Law, so you'll be gone. 

Tru, There shall be no Law, say vour I desire no more, 
'tis very exceeding dainty. There shall be no Law ; I desire 
no more, 'tis a kinde of petty Treason : You'll remember. Sir, 
that there shall be no Law : That's enough, I pray remember 
Sir: and so farewell. There shall be no Law. Exit. 

Bla. This worm-eaten old fellow has spoil'd our sport. And 
what says my hour-glass now ? Time was i'faith. 

Cutt. How do you feel your self ? 

Bla. As hot as Hell. Come wee'l take our last farewd 
within; and farwcl here all drinking. God send me a good 
journey, I say. 

Dog. Then briny tears come trickling down apace, 
For loss of him — 

Cutt. And what? 

Dog. Nay, ye put me out. Exeunt. 

Finis ASlm Secundi. 

AQ.. 3. Scsen. i. 

Dogrely Aurelia. 

Dog. Not poysoned you say? 

Au. No, he's as well as we. 

Dog. It may be he has more lives then one, or used himself 
to poyson ; as we now, that are Scholars, and Poets read, of one 



Au, He was never sick. 

D9g. Yes, very hot 

Au. I, as a painted fire, his fancy made him so ; I smell a 
plot in't. Luciay you say, urged him then for Truman. 'Twas 
a meer plot, I doubt, to put him in fear of death. 

Dog. I shall be taken for a kind of Rogue then, for bearing 
false witness. 

Au. You shall not be mistaken, Sir, at all. 

Dog. PilloryM, and whipt, with my godly brother Cutter. 

Au. Abus'd by the Prentices as you walk in the streets, and 
have rotten apples flung at you. 

Dog. Have a hundred blustring oaths o' mine no more be- 
leeved, then when I swear to my Creditors, I'll pay all. 

Au. Be abandoned by all men above a Tapster; and not 
dare to looke a gentleman i'the face ; unless perhaps you sneak 
into a Play-house, at the fifth A61. 

Dog. If ever I have to do with women again, but i'the way 
of all flesh, may I dye an Eunuch. I'll never lye or swear here- 
after, but for my self. Were not you the vertuous gentle- 
woman, with the brown paper-face, that perswaded me to it ? 

Au. The very same. Sir ; and I ha' just such another exploit 
here to imploy thee in : therefore be secret, close as a cokle, my 
good Rymer. 

Dog. To imploy me in ! 

Au. Nay, you must do't i'faith ; I ha' sworn first, Dogrel. 

Dog. By this good light, I will do nothing at thy intreaty : 
not if thou shouldst intreat me to lye with thee. Must Poet 

Au. I, must, if he intend e're to drink Sack again ; or to 
make more use of his little-pocket, then to carry Tavern-bills 
in't ; must do't, unless he intend to die without a shirt, and be 
buried without a winding-sheet. 

Dog. I like thy wit yet wench, what is't ? 

Au. I would marry Puny; he's rich you know, and a 
bravery, and a wit. 

Dog. He says himself he is so ; but few are of his faith. 

Au. He dances too, and courteth the Ladies. 

Dog. Yes, in more postures then a dozen of Bowlers. 

Au. But he's rich, Dogrelf and will be wise enough ; when 
I have got 'um knighted, then I shall be a Lady, Dogrel; have 



a dozen of French-Taylors, Doflors, Jewellere, Pertumere, 
Tyre-women, to sit in consultation every morning, how I shall 
be drest up to play at Gleek, or dance, or see a Comedy, or go 
to the Exchange i'the afternoon ; send every day my Gentle- 
nian,to know how such a Lady slept, and dream'd; orwhether 
her dog be yet in perfc£^ health : Then have the young smell- 
ing braveries ; all adore me, and cut their arms, if I be pleased 
to be angry : Then keep my close and open Coaches, my 
yellow sattin Pages, Monkies, and women, or (as they call *uin) 

Dog. fie then a politick. Lady ; keep none but ugly ones, 
you'll ne'er be handsome else. But suppose all this, what's this 
to Dsgrel} 

Dogrtl shall be maintain'd by me, he shall ha' fine n 

Sergey and every day more wine then's drunk at a Coronation. 

Dog. This qualifies. And when the good Knight's dicing, 
or at bowls, or gathering notes in private out o' Romances; 
might not Dogrcl have a bit? 

Au. Yes, like enough your Poetry might tempt some of mjf 
under-women to't. But are you prepar'd to cheat, in your own 
behalf, and mine ? 

Dog. I, but how must this be done ? 

Au. Why thus briefly. First read this Letter. 

Dog. {reads) Dearest Truman, 

We have long desired to be contrafled together, that nothing 
might be wanting to our Loves, but Ceremony: To night 
about nine a clock, I shall finde opportunity to meet you at the 
garden door, and let you in; silence, and the help of veiles, 
will save the violating of your oath. Farewel. 

Yours, Luc. Bladt. 
I'faith, was this her writing? 

Au. No, but the hand's as like hers as the left is to the right. 
This you shall shew to Puny ; and tell him that you found or 
stole it from Truman: I need not I suppose instrudl you, to 
polish over a lye ; he knows their love, and cannot suspect any 
thing ; perswade him to make use of the occasion, and come 

Dag. And you'll meet him vail'd. 

Au. Hast thou found it out? thou hast shrew'd reaches 


Dog. rU do't. Thou Shalt be blest. I'U do't i'faith. 

jtu. About it then; I'll leave you: and fail not, Dogrel; 
remember wine and serge. But first, I have another way t' 
undoe thee, Ijuciai And that I'll try too. Exit, 

Dog, Go thy ways girl for one, and that's for Puny I hope ; 
I sec thou'lt ne'er turn Semstress, nor teach girls ; thou'dst be 
a rare wife for me, I should beget on thee Donnes^ and yohnsons : 
but thou art too witty. We men that are witty, know how to 
rule our selves, can cheat with a safe conscience ; 'tis charity to 
help thee, Jurelioy and I will do't, and merit. 


A(9:. 3. Scsen. 2. 

Truman filius. Solus. 

Tru. Our minds are like the Sea, and every Passion 
Like some fierce Tempest stricken from the North, 
Disturbs the Peaceful calmness of our thoughts : 
Custom of anger drives us from our selves. 
The Adrian Gulf a milder fury hurries ; 
Those Waves touch Heaven, but these arise to Hell. 
Sometimes the winged whirle-wind of blind Avarice 
Shoots it self forth, and sweeps up all before it. 
Now we with greedy hope, knock at the Sphears, 
Anon the deadly hand of cold dispair 
Throws us beneath the grave : and midst these dangers 
The flame of Love appears in stead of lightning ; 
And with sad glory frights the night it self. 
Oh ! 'tis a subtil fire ! and kills, but wounds not. 
Good God ! What more then man can safely pass 
The Billows, Rocks, and Monsters of this Ocean, 
Unless some pow'r Divine, become his Pilot? 
For then the windes would scatter, the waves shrink. 
And th'outworn storm sufFer it self a shipwrack. 



A A 3. Scaen. 3. 

Junliay Tajhr^ Truman filius. 

Am. Thanks good Taylor ; now Fll onely beg that I may 
buy TOur secrecy : Fare thee well. Friend. at tbi dmr. 

Try. Ha ! I did but speak just now of Heav'nly pow'n. 
And my good Ange! enters! welcome 
Lucia \ I can scarce say so here, yet welcome heartily: 
You see how ill our honest Plot succeeds; 
I see we must out-weary fortunes anger, 
And I have armM mv self for*t — ha ! 

Sht giz a kirn a nstfy and imbraces him. Hi reads, 

I have with much ado gotten to you, and can stay with you 
to night. { Ha !) Why should we defer our joys longer, since 
we are married in heart r The opportunit}', and impatience of 
such delays, forced me to desire that which else my modesty 
would not suffer me — (Modesty :) — Your desires — to your bed — 
long wisht-for — (why this is strange) hum — hum — hum — 

Yours, Lucia. 
No, no, thou art not Lucia, If thou dost 
(As thou saist) love me, do not use that name. She embraces^ 
Some devil has chang'd thee — and goes U kiss him. 

This is worse stil — with much ado — to night — joys longer — 
opportunity — Reads : then walks 

about tf}e room ; goes to the 
Candlty and burns the Letter, 
May all remembrance of thee perish with thee, 
Unhappie paper, made of guilty linen. 
The mcnstruous reliques of some lustful woman : 
The very ashes here will not be innocent. 
But flie about, and hurt some chaste mens eyes, 
As they do mine. Weeps. 

Oh thou that once wert Lucia! thy soul 
Was softer then, and purer then swans feathers. 
Then thine own skin: Two whitest things, that paper, 
And thine own self, thou didst at once ddile. 



But now th'art blacker then the skin that covers thee: 

And that same gloomy shade not so much hides 

Thy Bodies colour, as it shews thy Mindes. She kneels. 

Kneel not to me, fond woman, but to heav'n; 

And prithee weep: tears will wash cleaner Ethiops — 

Wouldst thou have had me been mine own adult'rer? 

Before my Marriage too? Wouldst thou ha' giv'n me 

An earnest of the horns I was to wear? 

Is Marriage onely a Parenthesis 

Betwixt a maid and wife? Will they remain 

Entire without it? Go, pray go back, 

And leave me too, since thou hast left thy self: 

When peace is made with heav'n, 'tis made with me. 

Exit Aurelia. 
What are these women made of? Sure we men 
Are of some better mold. Their vows and oaths 
Are like the poisonous Spiders subtil net, 
As dangerous to entrap, and broke as soon. 
Their love, their faith, their selves enslav'd to passion. 
Nothing's at their command, except their tears. 
And we frail men, whom such heat-drops entice. 
Hereafter I will set my self at liberty. 
And live more free then is the air I breathe in: 
And when I sigh, henceforth, it shall not be 
For love of one, but pity of all the Sex. Exit, 

A(9:. 3. Scsen. 4. 

Dogrely Puny, 

Pun. But how shall I represent this Anthropophagus ? 

Dog. Onely speak softly, lest she chance to know your 

Pun. I warrant you I'll whisper like wet wood in a Justices 
chimney at Christmas. 

Dog. But of all things, take heed of too much wit ; that's 
always dangerous, but especially now. Truman^ you know, is 
an honest harmless fellow, and is contented to speak sense. 

en. N 193 


Pun. I, hang him ; there's clotted cream in his head in stead 
of brains ; and no more o' that then will compleatly serve to fill 
the eye of a needle. But I shall ne'er abstain from these fine 
things, hyperboles and similitudes: my nature stands a tiptoe: 
Truman has got the cramp ; his genius is like some gouty Alder- 
man's that sits in a chair. An' I were in Phalaris'sDvlVj I think 
I should be witty. 

Dog. Nay, I know't; a man may as well keep a prentice 
from Moor-nelds on a holiday, as you from your Muses^ and 
C[o]nundrums ; they're meat and drink to you. 

Pun. No, my good bag-pipe, they're meat and drink to you, 
that feed by 'um. 

Dog. I see you're ashamed of the Muses, and I hope they're 
even with you. But so much for this : you'll finde wine, I hope, 
when I have found you the wench. 

Pun. Though thou wouldst drink cups bigger then Pauls- 
steeple, or the great bell at Westminster, thou shouldst have 
'um. How long dost thou think has this night worn her 
mourning-gown, and lookt like a funeral ? 

Dog, Indeed, she has many torches. Why sure, 'tis just 
about the Critical time which she appointed. You know your 
business : First break a piece of Grold ; profess before Heav'n 
and Angels, you take her for your wife ; then give her half of 
it : and after that, somewhat as you understand me. 

Pun. Will she be malleable, d'ye think ? Shall I stamp Puny 
on her? 

Dog. There's a Metaphor indeed ! It seems 'tis the fashion; 
you take your wife for Gold. Hark ! the door opens, use your 
fortune well. Exit. 

Pun. Now, if my Alcocadin be right, I'm sure, I am made. 

She opens the door^ and lets him in. 

Aft. 3. Scaen. 5. 

Captain Bladey Servant. 

Bla. Pox upon 'um, they put me into a horrible fear; but 
I am glad I am so happily cheated, for all that. Well, I must 
devise some horrible lye, to justifie my fears; some trick must 



be thought upon to gull Truman. How now? What nevrs 
from Tripoly. 

Serv, Sad news, my Lord ; here's an Army at the door, to 
spcaUk with you. 

Bla. Who arc they? Creditors? a Merchant, a Mercer, 
a Scrivener, a Taylor, a Butcher, Six Cookes, a dozen of Vint- 
ners, and the rest ? Ha ? Tell 'um I am sick, taking Physick, 
or else abroad \ hang 'um Rogues, come like quotidian Agues on 
a man. 

Strv. No, Sir, 'tis old Mr. Trumany the Widow, and her 
daughter, and Mr. Dogrely and I know not who ; there's a stock 
of 'um. 

Bla. They are those I wisht for, let 'um in. Exit Sirv. 

Now, Signior Blade^ If ever thou wouldst see the golden age of 
yore, this is the time. 

A(9:. 3. Scsen. 6. 

Bladcy Truman Pater, fVidoWy Dogrel. 

Tru. O Sir, my Son has poyson'd you, I see; there's no 
Law yet, is there? 

Bia. Mr. Truman — 

Tru. True me no more then I true you. Come, Captain 
Bladty I know what you are, and so shall others too. 

Bla. You'll hear me. Sir, I hope — 

Tru. And so shall you hear me. Sir ; I can be heard, I would 
you should know, in as good a place as this is ; and before as 
good as you are, Captain Blade. 

Bla. First leave your raging. Sir: for though you should 
roar like Tamerlin at the Bull, 'twould do no good with me. 

Tru. I Tamtrtin? I scorn him, as much as you do, for 
your ears. I'll have an aftion of slander against you, Captain ; 
you shall not miscal me at your pleasure : remember you call'd 
me yethro once before. 

pKid. O the Father ! little did I think, I wuss, to see you 
ever with these eyes again. 

Bla. Pray, Sir, hear me ; The wrong I did you, when you 
were last here, came from distraction onely, and not my will ; 

N 2 \^$ 


and therefore deserves pardon. The business, if you please, HI 
relate truly to you ; and by what special providence I escap'd 
the danger. they whisper. 

Tru. Well, Sir, I'm not angry ; but I'll not be call'd Tam/r/fn 
by any man. 

B/a, Upon my faith. Sir, it was an Antidote; I vomited up 
more then any whale could have done ; things of more coloun 
then twenty Rhetoricians were ever able to invent. 

Tru. I shall teach my son — 

Bla. No, good Sir, I forgive him with all my heart: but 
for my Necce — You remember, Sir, the Will my brother left; 
you were witness to it. For this her disobedience, the means 
are fain to me. Now if you please to marry M. Richard to my 
daughter, Lucia* s portion shall all be hers. 

Tru, Thank you good Captain Blade \ I thank you for 
your love heartily : pray send for 'um ; he shall do't presently. 
I thank you heartily for your love, good Captain : he shall do t, 
he shall do't. Calls his servant^ 

and sends fir *um. 
(What good luck was this, that I spoke not to the widow for 
her daughter!) How do you, widow? you're melancholy me- 
thinks ; you're melancholy i'faith, that you are. 

fVid. Well, I praise God, Sir, in better health then I deserve, 
vile wretch. I'm glad to see our neighbour so recovered. 

Tru, I, good man, he has had a dangerous time of it, that 
he has, a very dangerous time : his neece is a naughty wench, 
a scurvie girl, to repay him thus for all his care and trouble: he 
has been a father to her. Widow, that he has ; to my knowledge 
he has : Her father was an honest man, I'm sure on't. 

IVid, Was he ? I, as ever trod upon Gods ground, peace be 
with him ; I, and as loving a neighbour too — 

Tru, We have drunk our half pintes of Muscadel together 
many a morning, that we have. 

frid. My husband too was all in all with him. Hei-ho! 
I shall never forget how merry we were when we went with 
him to Mortlake in the Easter-holy-days: and we carried a 
shoulder of Mutton with us, and a fat Pig, and he carried his 
bottle of wine down with him : I warrant you [he] lov'd a cup 
of wine as well as his brother ; in a fair sort, I mean. 

Tru, Ah widow! those days are gone: we shall neveriee 



those days again. I was a merry grig too then, and would ha' 
danc'd and cut capers: ha — who but I ? I was as merry as the 

Wid. My daughter Tabytha was just four yeer old then, 
come Z^ma^tide. 

Dog. Captain, I thought thou hadst been at Erebus by this 
time : but 'tis no matter ; *tis but an Epitaph lost : hang*t, 'twas 
made ex temporey and so let it pass. 

Bla. Hadst thou made one i'&ith ? 

Dog. Yes, by this light. 

Bk. Fm glad I did not die then. O here they come. She's 
a good handsome wench ; 'tis pity to cozen her. But who can 
hdp it ? Every one for himself, and God for us all. 

Aft. 3. Scaen. 7. 

Bladey ff^doWj Truman pater, Dogrelj Truman filius, Lucia. 

Bla. Welcome, kinde Neece ; you see I live still : there 
were Antidotes as well as Poisons. 

Wid. He has been a loving Uncle to you, Mistress Lucia : 
he might have deserv'd better at your hands : you might had 
Master Truman^ I warrant you, had you but held up your 
finger to him : he would not ha' seen you perish, Mistris Lucia ; 
I may say I know him so far. Speak, Mistris Luciay speak for 
your self, good chuck ; your Uncle will forgive you : we'll all 
speak for you : He shsJl forgive you, that he shsJl : he knows 
we have aul our &ults. 

Dog. I understand the language of her silence ; it's strong 
and good. You bound your son, Sir, to an oath never to see 
nor hear her without your commission: 'tis that troubles her 
conscience; she has a tender one. 

Tru. p. I bound 'um ? Well, I absolve 'um then ; what's 
that to you, Sir ? I'll binde 'um again, if 't be my pleasure so : 
if not, a fig for you ; that's all I care. I love to speak my 
minde ; you must pardon me ; I ha' spoke to as good as you i' 
my days. 

Dog. D'ye speak thus always ? I'll ha' you in a Play if 
you da 


Tru. p. I'm dad you are so religious, Sir ; did I bind vou 
too to silence ? Go too, Sir ; I told you what your mav-bees 
would bring you to, you'll always be wiser then your iather: 
Nay, you may speak, and your Minion too, if sne pleases. 

Lucicy pulk off her vaiL 

Luc. Does any man here accuse me of any thing i 

Bla. We, and your conscience do. 

Luc, My Conscience ? 'tis as pure as Sythian Christal, 
From any spot; I can see through't at pleasure. 
Whatever crime you mean, (for yet I know not) 
Would it were written in my face. 

Bla. Thou'dst be blacker then a Moor if 'twere. Did not 
you consent with that damn'd Physitian to eive me poyson ? 

Luc. There was none given you, I call God to witness: 
If such a thought had slipt into my dream, 
The horror would have wak'd me, and I fear'd 
Ever to sleep again. No ; what we did. Sir, 
Was but to fright you with a painted danger; 
That the just terror of your own destrudtion 
Might call to your remembrance my dead &ther: 
For sure, Sir, you forgot him when you thought 
To match his onely child with one of these 
Fellowes that live extempore ; whose fortunes 
Are patch'd up like their wit by several patrons. 
Should I have married thus, (but I would sooner 
Endure the shameful end which they deserve) 
Your conscious Ghost would start to meet my fathers, 
And look more pale then death it self hath made it. 

Dog, Let her alone, she'll call names and fling stones about 

JVid, Alas poor soul ! you may see she's not her own 

Tru. p. What a poor excuse she made ! a very idle simple 
excuse; have you never a better for us? 

Tru, f. No, she says true. 

Tru, p. You wo'nt bite off my nose? will ye. Sir? pray 
do not bite off my nose, I pray. Sir, do not ? 



Aft. 3. Scaen. 8. 

Bladiy JVidoWy Truman pater, DogreL 
Truman filius^ Lucia^ Puny. 

Pun. What a bevy o* men's here ! ha ! My little Load- 
stone, art thou here, my little Diamond ? I'll speak to your 
Uncle now; we'll have a Parson cry I Nicholas presently. 

Luc. You'r rude, Sir : what do you mean ? 

Pun. I, so you said i'the garden, when I began to gather, 
you know what fruit : Come put on your vail, you'll blush else ; 
and look like the picture of a red-rose i'the hangings. Captain, 
Sahij 'tis done. 

Bla. Done! What? 

Pun. I have her, i'&ith. 

Bla. God give you joy. Sir. 

Pun. Nay, she's my own. 

Bla. I am very glad oft. 

Pun. I scal'd the walls, entered the Town, and left a garison 
there, I hope. 

Bla. I congratulate your Viftory, Mr. Puny. 

Pun. You shall goe to my wedding, with me and this &ir 
Chorus. I'm as nimble as a Lybian Rabbit : Come, you must 
go, though you be as lame as a criple, that begs at Westminster, 
or a Crow in a gutter without her right leg. What d'ye wonder 
at ? I tell you, she's my Penelope now. 

Bla. May I be so bold. Sir, as to ask, who 'tis you mean ? 

Pun. 'Slid, canst thou not see my meaning ? are your brains 
in a litter ? I'm contracted to your Neece, and have got upon 
her — Nay, never blush, we're as good as married, my dear Agat. 

Bla. Have you then lien with her ? 

Truman fil. Ha ! No figures nor similitudes, good Mr. 
Puny I be as open and naked with me, as you were with her. 

Pun. As plain as a Scholars mourning-cloak. I ha' don't 
i'iaith, but d'ye see ? We broke this gold between us first, 
and will be married to day. Who^s that ? Truman^ ha, ha ; 
he looks like the Globe of the World, now: look how he 
scratcheth his poul. 



Bla. God give you joy, Sir : but she has not a farthing portion. 

Pun. How, Captain ? 

Bla. Not so much as will buy ribbands : all's mine own : 
a lawful prize, i'&ith. 

Tru. fil. Oh monster of her sex ! 

Luc. Wilt thou, vile man — I cannot speak to him — ^Witness 
all these — Weeps. 

Bla. So 'tis all forfeited to me. Will you try how your 
sons affection stands towards Aureliaf 

Tru. p. Come, Dick^ the Captain has forgiven you : never 
think of Lucia ; she's not worth your thinking on ; a scurvie 
girl : ne'er think o'her ; thou shalt marry &ir AureUa : there's 
a wench, a wench worth gold i'faith. 

Tru. f. I can't marry. 

Tru. p. What can't you do, Sir? 

Tru. f. I can't marry. 

Tru. p. Do you know who 'tis you speak to. Sir? you 
do'n't sure: Who am I, pray? you can't, when I bid you. 
Surely you know not who 'tis you speak to : you shall do't, or 
I'll know why you shall not. 

Tru. f. I wo'n't marry. 

Tru. p. Get you out o' my sight : come within my doors 
no more ; not within my doors, Sir. 

B/a. Take heed, M. Trumariy what you do. 

Tru, f. I wo'n't marry. 

Luc. Pray hear me all — 

Bla, Come, M. Truman^ let's talk of these things within: 
come, Gentlemen. 

Wid. Hei-ho ! I'll ne'er trust a wart o' the right cheek and 
a twinkling eye again whilst I breathe, for Mistress Lucia*s sake. 
A man would think, that sees her, that butter would not ha' 
melted in her mouth. Take heed, Tabytha ; the still Sow eats 
up all the draiF, I see. 

Tru. p. I'll never acknowledge him for my son again : I tell 
you. Captain, he's always thus ; he's always with his may-be's 
and his wo'nots : I can't abide these wo'nots, not abide 'um. 

Pun. I'll follow him about the portion ; he sha' not think 
to make an Asdrubal of me. 

Dog. Now my plot works. 

Exeunt omnes prater Tru. fiL feT Lucia. 



Aft. 3. Scsen. 9. 

Truman fil. Lucia weeping, 

Tru. How precious were those tears, if they were true ones ! 
How much more worth then all the Oceans Jewels ! 
But they are onely false and empty bubbles; 
Fair to the sight, but hollow as her heart: 
There's nothing, nothing in 'um : he that weighs 'um. 
Shall finde 'um lighter then a mad mans dreams, 
Or womens resolutions. 

Luc. I never did that fellow any wrong. 
Why should he pay so dearly for the loss 
Of my poor honour, as to sell his soul for't ? 

7r». O she confesses, now, sh'has lost her honour. 

Luc. They triumph in the ruine of us women. 
And wooe our beauties onely, or our dowries ; 
Which when they miss of, they resolve to take 
Revenge of their un worthiness on us ; 
Stealing away all that makes rich our dowry, 
And beauty &ir, our Name. But 'tis no matter. 
Since heaven and Truman know my chastity. 
Ha ! he's here still ! How do you. Sir ? 

Tru. Well, well. 

Luc. You look ill. 

Tru. No, no, no. 

Luc. Indeed you do : [you] are not well, I'm sure. 

Tru. I am. Will you be gone ? 

Luc. How, Sir I You do not know me, sure. 

Tru. I would I never had. 

Luc. What do you mean ? 

Tru. To see thy fece no more. 

Luc. You said you could not live without the sight on't. 

Tru. It was a good one then. 

Luc. Has one day spoil'd it ? 

Tru. O yes, more then an hundred yeers of time. 
Made as much more by a continual sorrow. 
Could e'er ha' done. 

Luc. I do not think my glass will say so. 


As hlsc as you, perhaps; but 'tis not half 

So brittle. Dares vour husband trust mc alone 

With you so long r 

Lut. My hus^nd i 

Tru. I cry you mercy; 
The man you sin withal. You scorn to use 

Luc. Yes, I do. Sir: 
For she that scorns th* offence, needs no excuse 
Have you so little confidence in that 
Which you have secm'd to praise so oft, my Vertues? 
Or did you flatter onely? Sure you did not: 
For I remember I have heard you swear 
You spoke your thoughts. Are Oathes but complements? 
'Tis done unkindly, very unkindly, Truman ; 
And were *t not your self, I should be angry. 
Had a bright Angel come to me, and said 
That you were false, I should have sworn 't had ly'd, 
And thought that rather false then you. Nothing 
Could ever move th' opinion of thy constancy 
But thine own self; and thee I must believe. 

Tru. And I'll believe my self in what I saw, 
I know thou canst speak prettily; but thy words 
Are not what Nature meant 'um, thy mindes picture. 
The Bee has left his honey in thy tongue, 
But in thy heart his sting. 

Luc. O do not say so: 
My heart is honest still, unless thou spoildst it 
When it receiv'd thee in, 'T had but three corners, 
And thou hadst two, at least. Would thou couldst see 
How little room I've left my self there in it. 

Tru. Yes; for 'tis crouded up with many guests; 
So many guests, that they excluded me: 
And now I freeze without ; but never more. 
Never will enter: 'twas a Palace once. 
But now 'tis turn'd a Dungeon, 

Luc. Will you leave me ? 
I will not call you fickle nor unconstant; 
But sure you arc [to] blame: you will not find 


A woman that will love you half so well. 

Tru. I do not mean to try. 

Liu. Yes, prithee do. 
But when y'have taUc'd, and lov'd, and vow'd, and sworn 
A little while, take heed of using her 
As you do me. No, may your love to her 
Be such as mine to you; it can't be better, 
What e'er you think; I'm sure it cannot, 7'ninuin. 
May she be worthier of your bed then 1, 
And bring forth many little selves to you: 
And when the happie course of divers yeei^ 
Makes you seem old to all besides your wife. 
May you in the lair glass of your blest issue, 
Sec your own youth again. But I would have 'um 
True in their loves, and kill no innocent maids. 
For me it is no matter: when I'm dead, 
My busic soul shall flutter still about you ; 
'Twill not be else in heaven: it shall watch 
Over your sleeps, and drive away all dreams 
That flie not with a soft and downy wing. 
If any dangers threaten, it shall bccken, 
And call your spirit away till they be past; 
And be more diligent then your Guardian- Angel. 
Onely sometimes, when your best leasure serves, 
(For I'd not trouble you more dead then living) 
Bestow one thought on Lwia, and then sigh. 
And (if you will) drop down a tear or two. 
But thats a task 1*11 not enjoyn you to: 
And if you do't, spend not too many on mcj 
One will suffice: then onely say. That maid 
Deserv'd more of me. And again t'your business. 
For my wrongd vertue and forsaken truth, 
I ask no more. So, dear False-maa, iarewel. Exit. 

7ru. Farewel i That word has charms and poisons in't ; 
It makes my frighted soul start back and tremble. 
Tis but an aery word. D'ye hear me, Lucia? 

Lk. (within) Who calls? 

7V«. Farewel, Lutia, brewel ; that's all : farewel. 
Repent, and meet me in heav'n — 
Why did nsh Nature quarrel with her self. 


In making one so excellently bad? 

She is more &ir then May*% new painted blossoms, 

But &lser then the smiles of Pithless April: 

And this I know, and yet me thinks I love her. 

O she has killM my Reason : I have lost 

That and my self for ever. Exiu 

Finis A£ius tertii. 

ASk, 4. Scaen. i. 

Lucia sola. 

Every thing now has left me ; tears themselves. 
The riches of my very grief, forsake me : 
Sorrow, me thinks, shews nakedly without 'um. 
My sighs are spent too; and my wearied lungs 
Deny me fresh supplies: and I appear 
Like some dull melancholy April-even^ 
When after many a showre the heav'ns still lowre, 
As if they threatned more; and the fled Sun 
Leaves nothing but a doubtful blush behinde him. 
And I could wish my eternal night were coming, 
Did I but know who 'tis that makes me wish it: 
Else, when my soul is ready for her flight, 
And knows not who it is she must forgive, 
A thousand light suspicions will call 
Her charity several ways; and I may chance 
To doubt thee, Truman, But thou art abus'd : 
I know not why; but sure thou couldst not do it* 
I fear thee, cousin. When we were both girls. 
Thou wouldst accuse me falsely to my Mistress, 
And laugh to see my tears. I fear thee, cousin ; 
But ril not judge too rashly: for I would not 
Have any innocent wrong*d as I have been. 
But I'm resolv'd to try her. She's now seeking 
(Hoping that all my fortunes now are hers) 
For a new maid t'attend her. That maid I'll be* 



Cloathes I have got already; and mv hce ^ 
Grief has disguis'd : that and my voice some art 
Will quickly alter. I have left a Note 
Upon my chamber-window, which will keep 'um 
From all suspicion of my staying here. 

Aft. 4. Scaen. 2. 

Cutter^ Dogrelj Puny^ Lucia, 

Cut. Hei ! the Sisters are ravisht, and we have holy kisses 
enough. I shall be as great among *um as — ^Who*s there ? 
What, your Spouse, Puny? 

Dog, She looks like Niohe on the mountains top. 

Cut. That Niobij Dogrely you have us*d worse then Phcebus 
did. Not a dog looks melancholy, but he's compared to Niobe. 
He beat a villanous Tapster t'other day, to make him look like 

Pun. Why 'faith that's pretty odde, like one o' mine. 

Lmc. O, Sir, had you the vertuous impudence to slander a 
poor maid thus? 

Pun. Poor enough now indeed. I will not marry thee : 
thy portion was a condition of the Contraft. I'll sooner marry 
a woman that sells Orenges with a face like Belinsgate. 

Luc. I scorn thee — I contracted to thee ? 

Pun. Wert not ? Answer. 

Luc. No, by heaven. 

Pun. Bear witness, Gentlemen ; these words are Carduus 
benediSius to me. 

Cut. And what will you do now, &ir Gammer Lucia^ you 
that contemn'd the Colonel ? Will you knit for your living ? 

Dog. Or else weed gardens for six pence a day and bread. 

Luc. This is imheard-of rudeness. 

Pun. Nay let me ha' mine too ; I ha' got a pat one for her. 
Or else turn Apple- woman, live in a stall, and sell pippins for 
eight a peny. 

Dog. Or hither in triumph 'twixt two panniers ride, 
And sell the bouls of wheat and butter in Cheapside. 
The last is a little too long: but I imitate Spencer. 



Cut. What think ye, Gentlemen? she'll make a pretty 

Pun, A Landress? hang her, she looks like a foul hand- 

Luc. Pray let me go ; I ha' business requires me. 

Cut. What ? you're to meet some Gentlemen ? How is*t ? 
twelve pence a time, I warrant, in these cloathes. 

Dog. Where do you set up ? Nay, we are true strikers. 
What, is't in Covent-gardcn ? 

Cut. Or do you renew the decay'd credit of Turnbal-strect ? 

Pun. Or honour the Mill-bank at Westminster. 

Dog, Or flee to Wapping, and engross the Sailors. 

Cut. Or Moor-fields, and sell cakes. 

Luc, Are all barbarous here ? 

Dog. Nay tell's ; we shall be customers. 

Pun, Enough, enough ; give her a clap o' the breech^ and 
let her go. 

Cut. Well, &re thee well, girl ; we shall finde you at the 
Play-house i* the six-pcny-room sometimes. 

Dog, And d'ye hear, Lucioy Keep your self wholesome: 
your tub's a terrible thing. 

Luc, Unworthy villains — But I'm born to wrongs, 
And must endure um. Exit. 

Omn, Ha, ha, ha. 

Cut, A pretty Scene i' faith. Now for the Captain ; he'll 
entertain us like forraign Princes: we'll drink this half-yeer 
with him, before wc eat or sleep. 

Pun, I'll drink like Gog-Magog himself, or the Spanish 
Tinker on a holy-day. 

Dog, There will I whet my Lyrick Muse 
With Falern wine as I do use. 
Captain Blade cannot refuse 
To entertain us ; he cannot chuse. 
When we bring him such good news, 
As that his neece is gone to the stews. 

Cut. Leave your verses, Dognl, I hate your verses, Degnly 
till I be drunk. 'Tis a glorious Captain. 

Dog. As free as Free-town in Germany. Here comes 



Aft. 4. Scaen. 3. 

Cutter^ Punyj Dogrelj Blade. 

Bla. The story says my ncece is run away. The story is 
not bad. Now will I get the widow, turn off my old rascally 
companions, and live like an Emperour. 

Cut. He says he will live like an Emperour ; ha, ha, ha, 
brave Captain. 

Pun. Invincible Captain Priam. 

Omn, Hei brave Captain ! 

Bla. What do you mean, Gentlemen ? Are ye broke loose 
from Bedlam ? Ha' you no other place to play your tricks in, 
but at my door ? If you come here as Mummers, much may 
be done ; haply you may have twelve-pence : or else depart ; 
depart, if you be wise. 

Omn. Why how now. Captain ! 

Bla. If you be not gone immediately, I'll ha' my men 
switch you ^rther off — Here are saucy knaves indeed with all 
my heart — Offers to go out. 

Cut. By this light the Captain's drunk without us. 

Pun. Prethee, Captain, thou art as humorous as a bell- 
rope. Dost thou know me, man ? I'm M. Puny. 

Blade. Y'are a fool, an addle egge : there's nothing else but 
cobwebs i' your head : The height of all thy knowledge is to 
find out the quarter day against thy rents come in, and thou 
couldst not finde out that, if 'twere not marke'd i' the Almanack 
with red letters. Yet you forsooth, because you see some 
Gentlemen and Poets of late, a little extravagant sometimes in 
their similitudes ; because they make a pretty kinde of sound to 
those that mark 'um not ; make that your way of wit, and 
never speak without comparisons. But never were comparisons 
so odious as thine are. And these two Rabbit-suckers, for a 
quart of wine extol thee, and cry good when thou speakest so. 

Pun. The Captains raging mad like a Baker when his oven 
is over heated. 

Bla. And that was one of um — 

Cut. Come leave your humors, hang you, confound you, 
pox take you. Captain, we come to drink here. 



Bla. Mine's no blind Ale-house, where you may roar and 
swagger with half a pipe of Tobacco in your mouth. 

Cut. Do you know me, Captain ? 

Bla, I would I never had. Thou art one that sayest thou 
hast seen the wars, but thou liest basely ; for if thou ever wast 
in a battle, [I'm] sure tho[u] winkest there. Thou art one that 
liv'st like a Raven by providence and rapine : one that if thou 
shouldst chance to go to bed sober, thou wouldst put it down in 
thv Almanack for an unluckv day ; sleep is not death's image 
with thee, unless thou beest deadndrunk. 

Dog. He dares not abuse me thus. 

Cut, Is't even so. Captain ? Has your money exalted you ? 

Bla. No, it has humbled me, and made me know my self 
and you, whom I shall study to forget hereafter. 

Dog. Come, Captain, shall you and I drink hand to hand ? 

Bla. Oh, you're his Lansprizado, Sirrah, Trundle. 

Dog. Let not thy wrath swell like the Adrian Sea. 

Bla. Thou that troublcst thy self to be a fool ; I will so 
beat thee. Trundle, that thou shalt hobble like one of thy own 
Rhyms. Therefore, if ever thou shewest that Poetical face of 
thine within my doors again. He use thee worse then thou didst 
me, when thou mad'st an Ode in commendation of me. 

Dog, Then break thine oaten reed — 

Bla. Fare ye well Gentlemen. I shall see thee Cutter a 
brave Tapster shortly ; it must be so i'faith, Cutter ; thou must 
like Bardolph i'the play, the spiggot weild. Dogrel shall make 
and sell smal Pamphlets i'the play-house, or else Tobacco, or 
else snuiFe Candles. As for Punyy his means will serve him to 
be cheated of these five or six yeers. 

Cut. 'Tis very well the times are so alter'd. 

Bla. Ye cannot want a living Gentlemen, as long as there 
are Whores, Bowling-allies, or Ordinaries ; especially such able 
men as you are. There will be wars too shortly ; never quake, 
Cutter ; here's Dogrel^ when his want has spun him out a little 
thinner, will serve you for a pike. 

Cut, 'Tis very well : pray God your mirth last. Captain. 

Bla, When you're grown old, and your fingers then only 
nimble with the palsie, I'll provide an Hospital for you — Seda 
ubl fata quietas — Fare ye well. Gallants ; and pray be merry : 
Fare ye well heartily. Exit. 



Cut. Poverty, the pox, an ill wife, and the Devil go with 
thee, Captain. 

Pun. I vexed him, when I put that jest upon him, like a 
Baker when his oven's overheated. 

Dog. If I don't compose a Satyre shall make him hang him- 
self, may I never write verse more. 

Cut. I would beat him like a Buck, but I shall be bound to 
the peace for't, and be afironted afterward by every one. 

D§g. No, no, no — let me see — Besides my Satyre I have 
another way — let me see — His brother trafEckt at Guiny. 

Cut. Yes, but the Merchants there report him dead. 

Dog. The more knaves they : he lives, and I am he. 

Cut. How ? How, Dogrelj thou the Merchant man ? 

Dog. By this light, I either am, or will be. 

Cut. How, Dogrel ! Though thou be as thin and penetrable 
as a spirit, yet thou canst not aissume dead bodies. 

Pun. Prithee, Dogrelj hold thy peace; thou talkest like 
a hogs face. 

Dog. Deride not. Puny : if I be not more like then any of 
your similitudes, I'll be hang'd for't. 

Cut. Thy face, indeed, will do exceeding well to represent 
one risen from the grave. 

Dog. By long conversation with the Captain, I know all the 
passages between him and his brother ; know what his humour, 
what his state and fortunes were, better then himself did when 
he lived. 

Cut. ly but thoult ne'er a£l him. Why, man, he was a 
thing more strange then any monster in Africk where he travell'd. 

Pun. What was he, prithee ? 

Dog. I knew him well enough ; he had lost his memory, 
and therefore either writ down every thine, and took his busi- 
ness with him in a scroll, or else trusted it to his man Johny 
whom he carried with him. 

Cut. O I, that yobn and he went perpetually together, like 
the blinde man and his dog. 

Pun. Or a Tinker and his trull. But d've hear, gallants, 
let me do apple-^^^f ; never was such a John as I'll be, not 
yobn a Gaunt himself, nor John a Noak. 

Cut. But Dogrely how wilt thou be made like that Cinqui- 

CIL o 209 


D§g. Why we Poets can do any thing. First you may 
remember (unless you be like him) 'tis seven yeers since 
he went from hence ; and time, you know, will alter men. 
I made an Ode upon that subject once: Timiy that d^st eaty 
and makst no Lent — 

Cut, Pox take your Ode ; go on i' your business, D§greL 

Dog, Then I and my man John (as simply as he stands 
here) will swarthy over our &ces as if the Coimtrey had made 
us so : for if you remember my verses, In Africk they art Hack 
as coals — 

Cut, The devil's i' thy verses. Prithee on. 

Dog, Besides, we'll be attir'd in some strange habit of those 
Countries: I know not how; but you shall see 't in Spuds 

Cut, Why now I like thee, my little Ovid\ go about thy 
Metamorphosis. I'm for Tabytha ; she's taken, Dogrtl^ melted 
like virgins wax. I'll to her presently, and tell her that the 
vision appeared to me last, and warn'd me to carry her to S. 
Ant* tins ; there will I have a Priest. 

Dog, A Priest, Cutter ? 

Cut, A Minister, I mean; a holy, godly, zealous Minister: 
and she — You conceive me, Dogrel — 

Dog, Well, let's be going then. Puny^ take heed o* your 
wit when you adt John : I shall beat my servant John^ if he be 

Pun, That's the devil ; I shall hardly abstain. 

Cut, And Dogre/y you must make no verses, Dogrel: let that 
be the first thing your memory &ils you in. 

Pun, Well, I'll follow you in a pissing-while. 

Dog, Do so, good John, Exit Dog. Cut, 

Pun, Now will I turn Johnj as round as a Wedding-ring: 
and if that plot be cut on by the nose — Ha? Here comes 
sententious Bias that walks gravely. I'll observe my young 



Aft. 4. Scaen. 4. 

Puny^ Truman filius. 

Tru. She's gone for ever. Peace be with thee, Luciaj 
Where ever thou art. 

Pun, Now he begins his Epithalamium. 

Tru. If she be guilty, 
Forgive her, heav'n ; she'll repent, Fm sure : 
For she is soft, and melting as the dew. 
That kisses cv*ry morn the trembling roses ; 
And howsoe'er beauty and youth misled her. 
She cannot be, I know, a stubborn sinner. 

Pun. Did ever Basket-maker talk thus? to himself too, 
like a Conjurer in a garden ? 

Tru. Ha I This is he, that wicked man. 
That devil which betray'd her. 

Pun. O, are you thereabouts ? Offers t9 go out. 

Tru. Nay stay, 
For wert thou arm'd with thunder and my anger, 
Yet I would bring thee back. Tell me what charms, 
(For I will rip thy heart up but Til know it) 
What witch-craft didst thou use t'entice her thus? 
Never deny't. For hadst thou been more handsome 
Then other mens, or thine own flattery 
Could ever make thee : hast thou been as beautiftil, 
And couldst have spoke as well as she her self. 
All this were nothing; she would look upon thee. 
But lust no more then thine own Angel does. 
No, thou didst use some cursed art to tempt her. 
Some Philter — 

Pun. Not I by all — what d'ye mean pray. Sir? 

Tru. Why then you ravisht her, by Heav'n you ravisht her : 
Alas, she's weak and tender, very tender. 
And was not able to resist that strength 
Which youth and ftirious lust did arm thee with. 
'Twas basely done, above expression basely. 
And I would presently revenge it fully. 
But that my sword would take from the laws justice. 
And ft-om thy shame. 

o 2 x\\ 


Pun. I ravish her? By this light I scorn't. 

Tru, You did enjoy her body ? Did you not ? 

Pun, I did so. 

Tru, You did? I prithee do not say you did so; 
This is to brag of the vile aft th'ast done: 
But I shall spoil your pride and shameful glory 
Which your base sin affords you. 

Pun, You bid me tell you the truth, what would you 
ha'me do ? 

Tru, Do? I would have thee fix thy adulterous eye 
Upon the ground, which thy cursed feet dishonour; 
And blush more red then is the sin th'ast a£ted. 
What would I have thee do? I'd have thee weep, 
Shed as true tears as she does for thy fault, 
And sigh away thy body into air. 

What would I have thee do? Td have thee kill thy self. 
And sacrifice thy life to her wrongM Soul. 
Canst thou refuse to do all this for her, 
For whom th'ast damn'd thy self? 

Pun, We were contracted first e'er I enjoyed her. 

Tru, Didst thou enjoy her then ? How durst thou do it ? 
Why she was mine, I tell thee she was mine; 
All the Seas wealth should not have bought her from mc^ 
While she remain'd as spotless as my love: 
And so she did remain till thy sin stain'd her. 
I tell thee to that hour she was more innocent 
Then thou, fialse man, wert in thy mothers womb. 
Didst thou enjoy her ? Either fetch back that word. 
Say, nay I'll have thee swear thou didst not touch her, 
Or by those joyes which thou hast rob'd me of, 
I'll kill thee strait. 

Pun, 'S[l]id I did not touch her. What would you ha* me 
say ? would I were John the Merchants man now. 

Tru, O Heav'ns ! O most unheard of villany 1 
Th' hast done a crime so great, that there is hardly 
Mercy enough in Heav'n to pardon thee. 
Tell me, (for now I'll argue mildly with thee) 
Why should you seek t' undo a harmless maid ? 
To rob her of her friends, her life perhaps, 
I'm sure her fame, which is much dearer to her. 



*Twas an inhuman a£t; an a£l so barbarous, 
That Nations uncivilized would abhor it: 
I dare say boldly she n[c]v'r injured you; 
For she was gentle as the breath of Zephyrus: 
And if she e*er did but begin a thought 
Of wronging any man, she would have wept 
Before she thought it out. 

Pun. I had rather be a pickl'd-Oister, then i'this case I 
am in now. 

Tim. Is Lucia abus'd ? and I stand here 
T'cxpostulate with words her injuries ? 
Draw, for Til talk no more with thee. 

Pun, D*ye hear, Sir — by Heaven I lay with her, but we 
were contra^ed first — will you be pleas'd to hear me ? 

Tru, No, be gone. 

Pun. Most willingly. Fare ye well heartily, Sir; I wish 
you a good night-cap. Exit. 

Tru. The want of sleep and diet has distempered me. 
If I stay thus I shall be quite distracted; 
Me thinks a kinde of strangeness seizes me: 
And yet if I go home I shall be forc'd 
To marry with Aurelia. Is it possible 
There should be women good, if Lucia be not ? 
They are not sure: She lookt as well as any, 
And spoke as well too. 

A(9;. 4. Scaen. 5. 

Truman pater, Truman filius. Blade. 

Tru. p. I tell you. Captain, he's a stubborn boy, a self-will'd 
hair-brain'd boy : he has his know-nots, and his wo'nots, and 
his may-be*s, when I speak. I have told him of his manner a 
hundred times ; nay I may say a thousand. 

Bla. Pray take my counsel for this once: though I be a 
souldier, yet I love not to do all things by force. Speak fiiirly 
to him. 

Tru. p. Speak fiiirly to my son ? V\\ see him buried. Til 
see his eyes out first. 



Bla, I mean, desire him. 

Tru. p. O, that's another matter. Well, for your pcr- 
swasion, I'll do it : but if ever I speak fair to him — 

Bla, I know his nature's such, that kindness will sooner 
win him — Look you, he's here i'faith, as melancholy as an owl 
i' the day-time. 

Tru. p. O, are you there, Jacksauce — 

Bla. Nay, remember what I told you. 

Tru. p. Tis true indeed. How now, son Dick ? you*rc 
melancholy still, I see. 

Tru. f. It best becomes my fortune, Sir, now you have cast 
me off. 

Tru. p. I cast thee off? marry God forbid, Dick. How 
dost do, Dick ? Thou lookst ill, Dicky in troth thou dost : I 
must have thee merry. 

Bla. I see all kindness is against this dotards nature, he does 
so over-adl it. 

Tru. p. Wilt thou have a Physitian, Dick ? Thou art my 
onely son, Dick^ and I must have a care of thee : thou should^ 
ride abroad sometimes, Dick^ and be merry. We'll ha' a wife 
too for thee, Dicky a good wife, ha — 

Tru. fil. I thank you, Sir ; but I know not — 

Tru. p. I, now he's at his know-nots. I will make you 
leave those know-nots, boy — 

Bla. Remember, M. Trumartj what I told you. 

Tru. p. 'Tis true indeed. Your father's old now, Dick^ 
you see, and would fain see a grandchilde : tis out of love to 
you, Dicky that I perswade you to't ; you may be a comfort, 
Dicky to your father now. 

Tru. f. You may command me. 

Tru. p. Well said, Dicky I see thou lovest me now, Dick ; 
dost thou want any money, Dick? or cloathes? or horses? 
You should tell me what you want, you shall have any thing — 
here's the Captain, a hearty friend of yours — where's your 
Daughter, Captain ? there's a wench, Dick ! ha you seen her i 

Tru. f. Yes, Sir. 

Tru. p. And how do you like her, Dick ? speak freely. 

Tru. f. I know no cause why any should dislike her. 

Tru. p. Why well said, Dick j keep thee o' that minde 
still, and God will bless thee. 



Bla. Your father means, Mr. Truman^ I suppose, how you 
like her for a wife. 

Tru, p. I can tell my own meaning my self I hope, Fm 
old enough Fm sure. 

Tru. f. You wrong her much, I never shall deserve her. 
Alas, I am a man so weak in all things. 
So lost both to the world and to my self; 
That if I lov'd a woman heartily, 
And woo*d her with all zealous passions. 
And valu*d her love *bove all things else but Heaven; 
Yet, when I thought upon my own unworthiness, 
I should my self perswade her not to marry me. 

Bla. Well, Sir, if you esteem her worth your choise, she 
shall be yours. 

Tru, p. Why what should ayle him. Captain ? He esteem 
her ? Must he, forsooth, or I be Master pray ? Captain Blade^ 
you make him too saucy with such talk ; never tell me. Captain 
Blade^ I say it makes him too saucy, I marry does it, it does 
i'iaith ; must he be his own Carver ? Come no more words, 
1*11 have you married presently : i'faith law, Captain, you make 
him too saucy, that you do, you do i'&ith. Sir ; I can't abide 
when sons must come to esteem, he esteem her with a ven- 

Tru. f. I desire time onely to consider — 

Tru. p. I, why I told you this; 'tis such a another wilful, 
hair-braind Coxcomb, he's always a considering. Captain Blade^ 
I could never keep him from his considering; but I shall so 
consider you — go get you in, Sir, I'll have it done when I 
please; get you in. Sir, I'll keep you from considering hereafter. 


A61. 4. Scaen. 6. 

Aurelia^ Lucia disguis'd. 

Aur. What did you say your name was? 

Luc, Jonty forsooth. 

Aur. Well said, Jane ; and as I told you, Jane^ you shall 
have six poimd a yeer, JanCy for your wages ; and then my 
cloathes will serve you with a little alteration : There's a gown 



of my Cosens within will almost fit you, you're much about her 
heiehty you shall ha' that too. I had a Cousin here was a 
foolish thing god wot, 'tis well I'm rid of her — and d'ye hear — 
you must be very secret and faithful to your Mistris ; a Waiting 
womans place, is a place requires secrecy. 
Luc, I shall ill deserve your fiivour else. 
Aur, Nay, I dare trust thee, Jane^ thou lookst ingenuously: 
didst thou ever live at Court ? 
Luc. No forsooth. 

Aur. O, you must learn the fashions of the Court: I'm 
already contraifted to one Mr. Punyj though he little thinks of 
it ; Take heed of speaking, Janey you see I trust you. And 
when I'm married to him I'll live at Court: Hes a simple 
thing God knows, but I'll have him knighted, and I like him 
the better for't : A wise woman you know will make the best 
use of a foolish husband. You know how to dress me, yam^ 
i'the Court fashion ? 
Luc. Yes forsooth. 

Aur. And you can lay me on a Fucus hansomly ? 
Luc. I hope I shall quickly learn it. 

Aur. And when you see a friend with me, or so, that I 
would be private with ; you can stay i'the next room, and see 
that no body come in, to interrupt us ? 
Luc. I shall not be deficient in my duty. 
Aur. Well said. And can you tell in private such a 
Gentleman that you heard me speak in commendation of him, 
and that I dreamt of him last night ? that will be in your way, 
Jane^ such men will be grateful. And say that I was longing 
t'other day, for such a jewel or such a toy ? 

Lucia makes a courfsj. 
Luc. I hope you shall not finde me wanting in any service 
to you. 

Aur. I beleeve thee, Jane. To morrow I'll teach thee 
more: I shall read to you every day a lesson, til I see you 
perfedl in the science : 'tis requisite that you have a little of the 
Theory first. Go look out the pearle chain in the Cabinet 
within ; and stay till I come to you. Exit Jane. 

The wench I see is docile, and will learn ; but alas she must 
have time; she has a little [too] much City breeding, I see, 
by Court'sies and forsooths. 



A&:, 4. Scaen. 7. 

Aurelioy Blade. 

Bla. How now ? all alone, Aurelia ? you're eating soap 
and ashes here, I warrant you, without so much as saying grace 
for 'um. 

Aur, Vd rather repent in ashes, Sir, then eat 'um. 

Bla, What would you think if I should marry now this 
very day? 

Aur. I should think. Sir, you'd repent to morrow for't. 

Bla. And the widow too. 

Aur. The widow ? then you'll repent to night. Sir, I 

Bla. I woo'd her long ago, and now she sees there's an 
estate hin to me, faith she's content; and, to save charges, is 
willing to be married to day privately. 

Aur. But I hope you are not so, Sir : why we shall have all 
the silenc'd Ministers humming and hawing thrice a week here ; 
not a dish o' meat but will be longer a blessing then a rosting. 
I shall never hear my Virginals when I play upon 'um, for her 
daughter Tabytha*s singing of Psalms. The first pious deed 
will be, to banish Shakespear and Ben, Johnson out of the parlour, 
and to bring in their rooms Mar-prelate^ and Pryns works. 
You'll ne'er endure 't. Sir. You were wont to have a Sermon 
once a quarter at a good time ; you shall have ten a day now. 

Bla. Let me alone to deal with 'um. If any of her eating 
talking tribe shew their ears here, I will so use her tribe, that 
they shall free the Pope, and call me Antichrist hereafter : and 
the widow, I'll warrant you, I'll convert: I'll carry her to 
Plays, in stead of Lectures : she shall see them, as well as the 
dancing o' the ropes, and the Puppet-play of Nineve. But this 
is not my business, girl : I have an husband too for you. 

Aur. I could wish you would keep him, Sir, if you have 
him; I know not what to do with him my self. 

Bla. Come, 'tis a man you'll like, I'm sure ; I have heard 

jrou often commend him for his parts. 'Tis young M. Truman. 

Aur. Truman^ Sir ? the melancholy cross-arm'd Gentleman 

that talks to trees and rivers as he goes by 'um ? We should 



sit all day together like pidhires of man and wife, with our 
fsLces towards one another, and never speak. I'll undertake, 
upon our Marriage-night he'll onely sigh a little, cry Cruil 
Fatty and then go sleep. 

Bla. Never fear't. Come, thou shalt have him, girl : go 
quickly and dress your self; we'll both be married on a day. 
The humor is good, and it saves charges : there's the widows 
humour too. 

Aur. You'll give me leave. Sir — 

Bla. No, no, no ; prithee go dress thy self: by heaven 
it must be as I say: the fates have ordain'd it. 

Aur, Be pleas'd to hear me, Sir. 

Bla. I would not hear thee, though thou wert an angel. 
I'm as resolute as he that writ the Resolves. Come away, and 
adorn thy self. Exeunt. 

AQi, 4. Scaen. 8. 

Cutter^ Dogrely and Puny disguis'd. 

Pun. Me thinks I look now like a two-peny apple pye, 
I know not how. 

Dog. John^ What's your name, John ? I have forgot your 
name, John. 

Pun. Do you mean the name that was given me at the 
Font ? 

Dog. Font ? Font ? I do not remember that Font. Let 
me see my scroll. (Reads.) 

There's ne'er a such town in Africa as Font. 
I do not remember Font. 

Pun. Your memory, Sir, 's as short as an Ephemerides. 

Dog. Did not I warn you, John^ of such strange what-d'ye- 
call-ums ? Here's for that word. (Strikes.) I have forgot 
what word 'twas: for the word I mean. 

Pun. Pox take you, Dogrely you strike too hard. 

Cut. Thou'dst aft well, I see: we'll ha' thee to Golden- 
lane, and there thou shalt do a King, or else some God in thine 
own cloathes. 



Dog. When a dead man from Orcus I retraft, 
Well may vou see that to the life I aft. 

Pun. Did not I warn you o' these what-d*yc-call-ums ? 
'Faith we'll be even, Master. Strikes him. 

Cut. Very well, John^ those be good Memorandums for 
your Master. 

Dog. I should be angry with thee for it, but that I ha' quite 
forgot it. 

Cut. Let's see your scroll. (Reads) Memorandum for my 
house: I have a hoiise in Fleetstreet, with a garden to't. My 
daughter is call'd Lucia ; a handsome fiiir maid with red cheeks, 
black eyes, and brown hair, and a little dimple in her chin. My 
brother's name (to whom I left the charge of my daughter) is 
Blade. (A most excellent Note indeed.) What ha' we here ? 
Memorandums concerning my estate. What, they're all of this 
stamp, are they not? Take heed, Dogrely the Captain's a 
shrewd fellow ; he'll examine you more striftly then the Spanish 
Inquisition can. 

Dog. Pish, if he pose me in any thing, my memory's weak, 
he knows ; I h' forgot it quite. 

Cut. And then your voice I fear ; and then — 

Dog. Pox take you. Gutter ; a Casuist would not finde so 
many scruples. 

Pun. The devil's in't, I shall never do this part; I know 
not how to ^)eak and not be witty. 

Cut. Well, look to't, gallants ; if the Captain finde you out, 
he'll abuseyou most immercifiilly — I'm now for Tabytha. 

Pun. The Captain abuse me ? By this day, I'll jeer with 
him with my hands bound behinde me. Come away. Master. 

Dog. I, yohn\ but which way did we come? 

Pun. Why this way. Master. 

Dog. Then that way we must go. Is not this my house in 
Fleet street, John ? I thought you had said t'had been in Fleet 

run. Yes, so tis. Sir. 

Dog. Truly I thought you said so. Come away, John. 


Finis A^fus juarti. 



A(9:. 5. Scaen. i. 

CutteTy Tabytha. 

Cut, And the vision told me, sister Tabytha^ that this same 
day, the twelfth of March, in the yeer of grace 1641, at this 
same holv place, by a holy man, we two, who are both holy 
vessels, should be joyned together in the holy band of Mat- 

Tab, My mother will be angry, I'm afFeard. 

Cut, Your mother will rejoyce. I would not for a world 
that you should do it, but that we were commanded from 
above ; yea, I may say commanded : for, to do things without 
a divine warrant, is like unto the building of a fire without 
a bottom cake. 

Tab. I (God knows) that it is. 

Cut, Very well, sister. Now when my eyes were opened 
in the morning, I awoke: for it was morning-tide, and my eyes 
were opened ; and I looked into my pockets ; for my breeches 
lay upon a joy n'd stool not far from the beds side : and in my 
pockets, even made with leather, I looked (I say) and found; 
What did I finde ? marry a License written with ink and pen : 
Where did I finde it ? in no other place, but even in a godly 
Catechism which I had wrapt and folded up long-ways, even in 
that very pocket. 

Tab. I wou'd my mother knew it. But I'll not resist, 
God willing. 

Cut. There is a godly Teacher within, that never was 
defiled with the Cap and Surplice, never wore that gambol 
call'd the Hood; even he shall joyn our hands. Shall we 
enter, sister? 

Tab. Brother, I'll not resist. Exgunt. 

AQi. 5. Scaen. 2. 

Truman filius, Aurelia. 

Tru. And must we marry then f 

Aur. It appears so by the story. 

Tru. Why will you marry me? What is there in me 



That may deserve your liking? I shall be 
The most ill-fiivourM m[e]lancholy Bridegroom 
That ever took a melting maid t'his bed: 
The Acuities of my Soul are all untim'd, 
And every glory of my spreading youth 
Is turn*d into a strange and sudden winter. 
You cannot love me sure. 

Aur, No by my troth, Sir. 

Tni. No, nor I you. Why should we marry then ? 
TTwere a meer folly, were it not Aurelia ? 

Aur. Nay, ask our Parents why. But, Sir, they say 
nris the best marriage where like is joyned to like; 
Now we two are a very even match; 
For neither I love you, nor you love me; 
And 'tis ten to one but we shall beget 
Children that will love neither of us. 

Tru. Nay, by my Soul I love you, but alas. 
Not in that way that husbands love their wives; 
I cannot play, nor toy, nor kiss, nor do 
I know not what: And yet I was a lover. 
As true a lover — 

Aur. Alack a day. Sir. 

Tru. *Twas then me-thought the greatest happiness 
To sit and talk, and look upon my Mistris, 
Or (if she was not by) to think upon her. 
Then every morning next to my devotion. 
And sometimes too (forgive me Heav'n) before it, 
She slipt into my fancy, and I took it 
As a good omen for the following day. 
It was a pretty foolish kind of life. 
An honest harmless vanity: But now 
The fairest fiice moves me no more then Snow 
Or Lillies when I see 'um and pass by. 
And I as soon shall deeply fall in love 
With the fresh scarlet of an Easterne cloud. 
As the red lips and cheeks of any woman. 
I do confess, Aurtlia^ thou art fair 
And very lovely, and (I think) good naturM. 

Aur. Faith, Sir, I would not willingly be a man, if they 
be ail like you. 


Tru, And prithee now, AureUoy tell me truly, 
Are any women constant in their vowes? 
Can they continue a whole week ? a month ? 
And never change their fiiith ? O if they could, 
They would be excellent things. Nay, ne'er dissemble: 
Are not their lusts unruly, insolent, 
And as commanding as their beauties are? 
Are their tears true and solid when they weep? 

Aur, Sure, Mr. Truman^ you ha'n*t slept of late; 
If we be married to night, what will 
You do for sleep? 

Tru, Why ? Do not married people use to sleep ? 

Aur, Yes, yes. Alas good innocence ! 

Tru, They have a scurvy time oft if they do not; 
But we'll not be as other people are. 
We'll finde out some new hansome way of love, 
Some kind of way that few shall imitate. 
But all admire. For 'tis a sordid thing 
That lust should dare t'insinuate it self 
Into the marriage-bed. We'll get no children, 
The worst of men and women can do that. 
Besides too, if our issue should be female, 
They would all learn to flatter and dissemble. 
They'd all deceive with promises and vowes 
Some simple man, and then turn false and kill him. 
Would they not do't Aurelia ? 

Aur, Our sex is little beholding to you. Sir ; I would your 
mother were alive to hear you. But pray, Mr. Truman^ what 
shall we do when we are married ? 

Tru, Why we'll live lovingly together: 
Sometimes we'll sit and talk of excellent things, 
And laugh at all the nonsence of the world: 
Sometimes we'll walk together into the fields: 
Sometimes we'll pray and read, and sometimes eat, 
And sometimes sleep; and then at last we'll die, 
And go to heav'n together. 'Twill be dainty. 

Aur, We may do this, me thinks, and never marry for 
the business. 

Tru, 'Tis true, we might do so: 
But since our parents are resolv'd upon't, 



In such a trifle let 'um have their humour. 
My father sent me here to complement, 
And keep a prating here, and play the fool: 
I cannot do *t. What should I do, Aurelia ? 
What do they iise to say? 

Aur. Sure, Sir, you knew, when you were a suitor to my 
cousin Lucia. 

Ttk. I, but those days are past, and I have now 
Forgot what manner of man a lover is: 
I was one then, Fm sure on't. O that Lucia^ 
That Lucia was so wonderful a creature — 
There was a cheek, a lip, a nose, an eye ! 
Did you observe her eye, Aurelia? 

Aur. Yes, yes. Sir, you were wont to sit all day. 
And look upon the pretty babies in it. 

TVk. It was as glorious as the eye of heav'n. 
Like the souls eye, dispersed through ev'ry thing. 
And then her hands ! her hands of liquid Ivory ! 
Did she but touch her Lute (the pleasing'st harmony 
Then upon earth, when she her self was silent) 
The subtil motion of her flying fingers 
Taught Musick a new art. To take the sight 
As well as th'ear. 

Aur. I, I, Sir, y'had best go look her out, and marry 
her. ^ 

Tru. Nay prithee be not angry, good Aurelia \ 
I do not say she is more fiiir then thou art: 
Yet if I did — No, but I will not say so : 
Onely I strive to cherish the remembrance 
Of one I lov*d so well. And, now I think on't, 
1*11 beg a fiivour of you: you'll laugh at me, 
I know, when you have heard me: but I'll beg it: 
Prithee be veil'd as Lucia was of late; 
Cast such a silken cloud upon thy beauty 
For this one day: I'd bin marry you so. 
nfis an odde foolish humour, I confess: 
But love and grief may be allow'd sometimes 
A little innocent folly. 

Aur. Well, I'll obey your humour; pray walk in there; 
m onely dress my self, and wait upon you. 


Tru, And wc*II be married very privately. 
None but our selves, it will be best, Aurelia. Exit. 

Aur. Why here's a husband for a wench of clouts 1 May 
I never laugh again, if his company has not made me duller 
then Ale and butter'd cakes wou'd ha* done. I marry him ? 
the old men must excuse me. I'll sooner chuse a fellow that 
lies bed-rid, and can do nothing a^nights but cough. Well, if 
I don't teach 'um what 'tis to force a wench that has wit, may 
my husband beat me when I have one, and I sit still and cry. 
I like this very well — It shall be so. yant^ come hither, Jam. 

A(9:. 5. Scaen. 3. 

Aurelia^ Lucia. 

Aur, O fane^ that's well; little think you what good's 
towards you ; 'tis that you have wisht for, I dare say, these five 
yeers ; a good handsome husband. What think you of young 
Truman ? 

Luc, I think every thing 
That makes a man compleat, and his wife happie, 
The richest glories of a minde and body. 
And their not ill companion, Fortune too. 
Are reconcil'd and married all in him: 
And I commend the wisdom of your stars. 
That joyn you two together. 

Aur, Nay faith thou shalt e'en have him thy self for better 
or worse. He's too hansome indeed, unless he could make 
better use of his beauty; for by my troth, wench, I'm afraid 
thou'it finde thy pillow as good a bed-fellow. 

Luc, I pray do not mock your servant. 

Aur, Thou shalt see, Tane^ I do not; come in, wench, 
and I'll tell thee all my plot. ExtunU 



A61. 5. Scaen. 4. 

Bladej Servant. 

Bla, Well, Sir, is the Cook doing according to jpy direc- 
tions ? 

SfTv. Yes, Sir, hc*s very hard at his business i*the kitchin : 
h' has been a swearing and cursing at the scullions at least this 
hour, Sir. 

Bla. *Tis such an over-wasted Coxcomb ; an other wedding 
dinner would make him a S. Laurence \ bid him be sure the 
Venison be well seasoned. 

Serv. Troth, Sir, I dare not speak to him now, unless I put 
on the armor in the hall : he had like to have spitted me next 
to a goose, for saying that he look'd like an ox that was roasted 
whole at S. Jamis fiiyre. 

Bla. You have invited all the guests to dinner you 
talked of? 

Serv. Yes, Sir. 

Bla. And the widdows round-headed kindred ? 

Serv. Yes, Sir. 

Bla. They*l come i*their garded petticoats, will they not ? 
You should have bid 'um eat no porrige at home, to seem more 
mannerly here at dinner. The widdow will be angry at their 
charges, but I'll please her at night. Go bid the Butler look to 
his plate, and not be drunk till he sees it all in again. Whose 
at the door there ? 

AQi, 5. Scaen. 5. 

Blade^ Dogrely and Puny disguised. 

Serv. Faith, Sir, you know as well as I ; some charitable 
beast come to be drest here. Shall I call the Cook, Sir ? 

Dog. Why this is my house here, John : ha ! ha ! little 
thought I to have seen my house in Fleet-street again. Where's 
my brother Blade ? 

Bla. They call me Captain Blade. 

c II. P 225 


Dog, Is this he yohn? Let me see {reads) A proper burlj 
man, with a whiteish beard, a quick eye, and a nose inclining 
to red, 'tis true. Save you good brother, you did not expert me 
here; did you brother? Stay let me see how many yeers ago 
is't since we went from home ? 

Pun. 'Tis now just seven. Sir. 

Dog. Seven ! me think's I was here but yesterday : How 
the what-d'ye-call-'um runs ? What do ye call it ? 

Pun. Time, Sir. 

Dog. I, I, Time. What was't I was saying ? O, I was 
telling you brother, that I had quite forgot you: was I not 
telling him so John f 

Bla. By my troth. Sir, we are both quits then ; for I have 
forgot you too. Why, you were dead five yeers ago. 

Dog. Was I so ? I ha' quite forgot it. John^ was I dead 
five yeers ago ? My memory failes me very much of late. 

Pun. We were worse then dead I'm sure; we were taken 
by a barbarous kind of Nation, and there made slaves these five 
yeers. John quoth he ! I was poor John indeed : I*m sure 
they fed us three whole yeers with nothing but Acorns and 
water: we lookt like wicker-bottles. 

Dog. How, Sirrah f Did your Master look like a wicked 
boat-man ? {strikes him) Nay I remember what you said we 
lookt like. Did wc look like what-d'ye-call-ums ? 

Bla. Where did they take you prisoners? 

Dog. Nay ask John^ he can tell you I warrant you. 'Twas 
in — tell him, Johny where it was. 

Pun. In Guiny, Sir. 

Bla. By what Country-men were you taken ? 

Dog. Why they were call'd — I know not what they call'd 
*um 'twas an oddc kinde of name ; but John can tell you. 

Pun. 'Slife, who I, Sir ? d'ye think I can remember all 
things ? 

Dog. 'Tis in my book here ; I remember well the name of 
any Country under the Sun. 

Pun. I know their names. Sir, well enough ; but I onely 
tri'd my Masters memory. They're call'd Tartarians. 

Dog. How say you r what were they ? 

Pun. Tartarians, Sir. 

Dog. I, I, these were the men. 



Bla. How, John ! why all the world, man, lies between 
'um : thev live up i* the North. 

Pun. The North ? 

Bla. I, the very North, John. 

Pun. That's true indeed : but these were another nation of 
the Tartarians that liv'd by us. 

Bla. Well, how escap d you, Johny at last ? 

Pun. Why *faith, Sir, to tell you the truth, for I love not to 
tell a lye, the Kings daughter fell in love with me, and for my 
sake there set us free. My master has it all in his book ; 'tis a 
fine story. 

Bla. Strange ! In what ship did you come back ? 

D9g. What ship ? why 'twas calPd — a thing that swims — 
How d'ye call it ? 

Bla. What ? the Mermaid ? 

Dog. No, no, no, let me see — 

Bla. What ? was't the Triton ? 

Dog* No, no — it swims, I tell you. 

Bla. The Dolphin ? 

Dog. No, no^I have forgot what 'twas. 

Bla. What say you, John ? 

Pun. (Pox take him.) I, Sir? O God, my Master, Sir, 
can tell as well as I. 

Bla. He sa}rs he has forgot. 

Pun. 'Tis his pleasure to say so. Sir : he may say what he 
pleases. (A plague upon him.) You can't conceive the misery 
we have past. Sir. 

Bla. Well, brother, I'll make bold to ask one question more 
of you. Where did you leave your Will when you went 

Pun. 'Slife, now he's pos'd again. 

Dog. I'll tell you presently, brother ; let me see. (Reads.) 
Memorandum for my Will: Left to my brother Blade the 
whole charge of my estate — hum — ^What did you ask me, 
brother ? 

Bla. In what place you left your Will? 

Dog. I, that was it indeed ; you're i' the right ; 'twas the 
very thing you askt me ; and yet see how quickly I forgot it. 
My memory's short, alas, God help me. 

Bla. This is no answer to my question, yet. 

p 2 xa-] 


D9g. 'Tis true indeed. What was your questioiii pray ? 

Bla. Where you left your Will. 

Dog. Good lord ! I had forgot you askt me this ; I had 
forgot, i' faithlaw, that I had: you'U pardon my infirmity, I 
hope brother; for alas — alas — I ha' forgot what 1 was going to 
say to you ; but I was a saying somthing, I am sure. 

Pun. Did not you know us, H^illi prithee tell's true. 

Serv. No, by this light: why, you're grown as black as the 

Pun. That's the nature of the Country where we liv'd. 
O the stories that I shall tell you I And how does NiU^ and 
little bonny Bess f are they as merry grigs as e'er they were \ 

Serv. No ; BesSy poor wench, is married to a Chandler ; but 
she's true blue still, as right as my leg, I'll warrant you. 

Dog. What is't, John? what was I going to say, J^bn^ to 
my brother ? 

Pun. I know not. Sir ; was't not about your daughter ? 

Dog. I, I, my daughter — What d'ye call her ? 

Pun. Lucia J Sir. 

Dog. 'Tis true indeed ; my daughter Lucia j brother. 

Bla. Pray walk into the parlour; I'll come to you pre- 
sently, and tell you all. 

Dog. Well, Johny put me in minde o' my daughter Lucia. 
(A plague o' your Tartarians.) 

Pun. (And o'your what-d'ye-call ums.) 

Dog, ('Slife, Tartarians.) Exeunt Dog. Pun. 

Bla. If these be rogues, they are as impudent as Mounte- 
banks and Juglers: and if I finde 'um to be rogues, (as I see 
nothing yet to the contrary) how I will exercise my rogues ! 
The tyranny of a new Beadle over a beggar, shall be nothing to 
mine. Come hither, JVill^ what think you of these two 
fellows ? 

Serv. 'Faith, Sir, I know not : but if you think it be not 
my old Master, I'll beat 'um worse then the Tartarians did. 

Bla. No, no, let's try 'um first. Thou wast wont to be a 
very precious knave, and a great ader too, a very Roscius. 
Didst not thou once a£t the Clown in Musidorus f 

Serv. No, Sir ; but I plaid the Bear there. 

Bla. The Bear ? why that's a good part ; th'art an adcr 
then, I'll warrant thee. The Bear's a well-pen'd part. And 



you remember my brothers humour, don't you ? They have 
abnost hit it. 

Serv. Yes, Sir, I know the shortness of my Masters 
memory ; he would forget sometimes to pay me my wages till 
he was put in minde on't. 

Bla. Well said. I'll dress thee within in his own chamber; 
and all the servants shall acknowledge you. But who shall do 
trusty John? 

Serv. Oj Ralph the Butler, Sir ; he's an old ador. Sir, h'has 
plaid a King he says. I have heard him speak a Play ex tempore 
in the Buttry, Sir. 

Bla. O Ralph^ excellent Ralpbj incomparable Ralphy Ralph 
against the world ! Come away, IVilliam ; I'll give you in- 
strudions within. It must be done in the twinkling of an eye. 


A61. 5. Scaen. 6. 

Cuttery Tahythoy Boy, 

Cut. Now, Mistress Tabytha Cutter^ let me kiss thee. 
Tab. Pray God my mother be not angry. 
Cut. Think not o' thy mother, Spouse ; I tell thee. Spouse, 
thou shalt be a mother thy self, within these nine months. 
Come to my bed, my dear ; my dear come to my bed : 
For the pleasant pain. 
And the loss with gain. 

Is the loss of a maidenhead. 
Tab. Is that a Psalm, brother husband, that you sing? 
Cut. No, no, a short ejaculatory. Sirrah boy, are the 
things virithin that I spoke for? 
Boy. Yes, Sir. 

Cut. Go fetch 'um in. Exit Boy. 

Come, Tabytha^ let's be merry: Canst thou sing a catch, 
wench ? O well said. Boy ! Enter boy with a hat and a 

feather^ a broad bandy a 
sword & a belty & a periwig. 
Tab. What do you mean, brother husband ? 
I hope you'U not turn roarer. 


Cut, What ? do these cloathes befit Queen Tabytha\ hus- 
band ? this hat with a chimny>crown, and brims no broader 
then a moderate hat-band? Give me the Periwig, bojr. What? 
shall Empress Tahytha^s husband go as if his head were scalded ? 
or with the seam of a shirt for a band ? Shall I walk without 
a sword, and not dare to quarrel i* the streets, and thrust 
men from the wall? Will the Fidlers be here presently, 

Boy. Yes, Sir. 

Tab, Pish, 1 can't abide these doings. Are you mad ? O 
lord ! what will my mother say ? There shall come no Fidlers 

Cut. Be peaceable, gentle Tabytha ; they will not bring the 
Organs with 'um. I say be peaceable ; [t]he vision bid me do 
thus. Wilt thou resist the vision ? 

Tab. An* these be your visions — Little did I think *twerc — 
Is this your religion and praying ? Which of all the Prophets 
wore such a map about his head, or such a sheet about his neck ? 
What shall I do ? I am undone. 

Cut. What shalt thou do ? Why, thou shalt dance, and 
sing, and drink, and laugh ; thou shalt go with thy brests open, 
and thy hair braided ; thou shalt put fine black stars upon thy 
face, and have great bobs for thy ears. Nay, if thou dost 
begin to look rustily, I'll have thee paint thy face like the 
whore of Babylon. 

Tab. O that ever I was born to see this day ! 

Cut. What ? dost thou weep, Queen Dido ? Thou shalt 
have Sack to drive away thy sorrow. Come hither, boy, fetch 
me a quart of Canary. (Exit boy.) Thou shalt see 1*11 be a 
loving husband to thee. The vision, Tabytha^ bid me give you 
drink: we must obey these visions. Sing, Tabytha: Cry on 
your wedding-day ? 'tis ominous. 
Come to my bed, my dear; 

Come to my bed: 
For the pleasant pain — Enter boy with tvim. 

O art thou come, boy — Well said, fill a brimmer ; nay fuller 
yet, yet a little fuller. So. Here's to the Lady-Spouse ; to our 
good sport to night. 

Tab. Drink it your self, if you will ; I'll not touch it 

Cut. By this hand, thou shalt pledge me, seeing the vision 



said so. Drink, or I'll take a Coach and cany thee to a Play 

Tab. I can't abide — (She drinks,) 

Cut. Why, this will clear thy heart, wench : Sack, and an 
husband, wench, are both comfortable things. Have at you 

Tab. ril pledge you no more, not I. 

Cut. Here, take this glass, and take it oS too, or else PU 
swear an hundred oathes in a breathing-time. Here — 

Tab. Well, you're the strangest man — 

Cut. Why this is right now. Nay off with it. So. But 
the vision said that whatsoever we left of this same wine, 
would turn to poison straight. There, here's to you, Tabythoy 
once again: 'tis the visions will. 

Tab. What ? must I drink again, then ? Well, I'll not 
resist. You're such another brother-husband. (Drinks.) 
There's a whole one now — 

Come to my bed, my dear; 
Come to my bed — 
How was't? Twas a pretty one. 

Cut. O divine Tabytha 1 Here come the Fidlers too. 
Strike up, you rogues. 

Tab. What ? must we dance now ? is not that the fashion ? 
I could have danc'd the Coranto when I was a girl. The 
Coranto's a curious dance. 

Cut. We'll dance out the disease of the Tarantula: but 
first we'll have a health to my pretty Tabytha. 

Tab. I'll begin't my self. Here, Duck, here's to all that 
love us. 

Cut. A health, you eternal scrapers, sound a health. Brave- 
ly done, Tabytha : what thinkst thou now o' thy mother ? 

Tab. A fig for my mother; I'll be a mother my self. 
Come, Duckling, shall we go home ? 

Cut. Go home ? the Bride and the Bridegroom go ? We'll 
dance home. Afore us, squeakers: that way, and be hang'd. 
So. O brave Queen Tabytha ! excellent Empress Tabytha ! 
On, you rogues. They go out dancing^ with 

tht musick before *um. 



A6k. 5. Scaen. 7. 

Bladej Dogrely Puny. 

Dog. I must not be fob'd off thus about my daughter: I 
remember not your excuse; but John can tell well enough, 
I warrant you. 

Bla. I have told you the plain truth : you'll not be angry, 
I hope. 

Dog. I shall have cause to be angry, I fear: Did not I 
leave her to his charge, John? Brother, I tell you — 

Bla. I must not answer, brother — 

Dog. I know you put me out, that I might forget what 
I said to you before: remember, jfohn: I'll be as cunning as 
you're crafty : remember, John. How now ? what's the 
matter ? Enter servant. 

Serv. Ho, my old Master's come; he's lighted now at the 
door with his man John : he's asking for you ; he longs to see 
you : my Master, my old Master. 

Bla. This fellow's mad. 

Serv. If you wo'n't believe me, go in and see. Sir: he*s not 
so much alter'd, but you'll quickly know him. I knew him as 
soon as I saw him. rray. Sir, go in. 
.'X Exeunt Blade and servant. 

kL2. ^- (BIoJ Why this is strange. 

^tt«. If this be true, what course shall we take, Dcgrelf 
I begin to shake like a plum-tree-leaf. 

Dog. We'll shift some way or other, I warrant you. 

Pun. How, Dogrel? prithee how ? 

Dog. Let the worst come, we can be but whipt, or burnt in 
the hand, at the most. 

Pun. Ho, our best way will be to hang our selves — 'Slife, 
here's John. 



Aft. 5. Scaen. 8. 

Dogrely Punyj John^ two or thrte servants, 

1 Serv. Give me thy hand i'fkith, boy: is't possible that 
thou shouldst be alive still? 

2 Sirv. Ha rogue ! art thou come i 'faith ? I have a pottle 
o' Sack to welcome thee. 

3 Serv. Why you'll not look upon your poor friends, John, 
Give my thy goUs, yohn. How hast thou done this great 
while ? 

John. I thank you all heartily for your love; thank you 
with adl my heart-law. What ? my old bed-fellow Robin ? 
how dost do ? when shall we steal Apricocks again ? d'ye 
remember, Robin? 

2 Serv. A murrain take you ; you'll never forget your 

Pun. A murrain take you all : this was your plot, and be 
hang'd. Would I were Puny the Wit again. 
Dog, Accursed Fate — 

3 Serv, Come, Johny let's go to the Buttry and be merry : 
Ralph longs to see you, I'm sure. 

John, And how does Ralph ? good honest Ralph ? That 
Ralp\hys as honest a fellow, though I say 't my self ; I love him 
with all my heart-law, that I do; and there's no love lost, 
I dare say for him. 

2 Sirv, Come, my masters, will you go in ? I'll prevail 
with the Cook for a slice or two of Beef; and we'll have a 
cup of Stingo, the best in the cellar. 

John. Well said, steel to the back still; that was your 
word, you know. My master's coming in : go, I'll follow you 

I Serv. Make haste, good John^ for I can't stay. 

Exeunt Servants. 

John. Here's a company of as honest fellows as a man 
would wish to live i' the house withal ; all, no man excepted. 

Hog. Would I were out of the house, as honest as they are. 
Here they come, John. 

Pun. John^ quoth he, with a pox. 



A6k. 5. Scaen. 9. 

Dogrely Punyy Johfty Blade^ William. 

Bla. Me thinks you're not returned, Sir, 
But born to us anew, and I could wish 
My tongue were not more niggardly then my heart 
In giving you a welcom. 

Will. Thank you good brother. Truly we ha* past 
through many dangers; my man shall tell you all, Pm old 
and crasy, and forget these things. {Enter fVidtw. 

Bla. Pox on't, the Widow's come already ; keep 'lun here, 
John^ till I come back. O are you here sweet-heart ? 

fVid. Who have you yonder, I pray ? 

Bla. O, you should not ha' seen 'um yet, they are Maskers 

IVid. Not vagrant players, I hope ? 

Bla, No, no, they can onely tumble, and dance upon the 
rope, you shall see 'um after dinner. Let's away sweet-heart, 
the Parson stays for us, he has blown his fingers this hour. 

{Exeunt Blade and the fVidtw. 

Dog, I'm glad the Captain's gone, now will I sneak away, 
like one that has stolen a silver-spoone. 

Pun. I'll be your man and follow you. 

IVil. Who are these John ? By your leave. Sir ; would 
you speak with any here ? 

Dog. The Captain, Sir. But I'll take some other time to 
wait on him, my occasions call me now. 

fVil. Nay, pray. Sir, stay. Whom did you say you would 
speak withall P 

Dog. The Captain, Sir. But another time will serve. I 
ha' some haste of business. 

Will. Whom would he speak with, John ? I forget still. 

yoh. The Captain Sir. 

Will. Captain ? What Captain Sir ? 

Dog. Your brother I suppose he is. 

Will. 'Tis true indeed, I had forgot that my brother was a 
Captain. I cry you mercy. Sir, he'll be here presently. Are 
you an English-man, Sir ? 

Dog. Yes, Sir. 



ff^ilL Where were you born I pray ? 

Dog. In London, Sir. I must leave you — 

fVilL In London? y*are an English-man then I see, Sir. 
Would you have spoke with me Sir? 

Dog. No, with your brother, but my business with him 
requires not haste, and therefore — 

fVill. You're not in haste you say; pray sit down then: 
may I crave your name. Sir ? 

Dog. My name's not worth your knowled[g]e. Sir ; but my 
mans name s John. 

Pun. (If I be John any more I'll be hang'd) No my name's 
Timothyy Sir. 

ff^il/. Mr. John Timothy ? Very well. Sir. You seem to 
Be a Travellor. 

Dog. We're newly come out of AfiFrick, and therefore have 
some business that requires us. 

ff^i/L Of Affrick ? Law you there now. What Country 

Dog. Pnstir John*s Country. Fare you well. Sir, now. 

ff^i/L Marry God forbid. What come from Prester John^ 
and we not drink a cup of Sack together ? 

Dog. (What shall I do?) Friend, shall I trouble you to 
shew me where your house of office is ? 

fVilL You'll stay here Mr. — what's your name, pray? 

Pun. Timothy^ Sir. 

fVilL Gods me, 'tis true indeed Mr. John Timothy. 

Pun. I'll only make water, and come to you. 

Joh. The door. Sir, is lockt ; the Captain has lockt us adl in 
here, if you'll be pleas'd to stay, Sir, till he comes — 

Dog. (I'd as live stay to meet the Devil, or a Sargeant.) 

Pun. (Would I were hid like maggot in a pescod ; we shall 
be abused I see, oh, oh, oh,) 

Job. What maJces you quake so, Sir? 

run. Nothing, onely I have an extream list to make water : 
Tis nothing else by this light. 

ff^ill. My brother would not have you gone it seems. 
Your names Mr. John Timothy^ is it ? 

Dog. No, that's my mans name. 

fVilL O, your mans name ; 'tis true, 'tis ve[r]y true indeed, 
that's your man's name. You'll pardon me. Sir ? 



Joh. Pray, friend, do you know the great City call'd Ast^- 
vadil, where my name-sake PrisUr^John^kteps his Court ? 

Pun. Know't? I, very well; I have liv'd there a great 
while, I have cause to know't. 

Job. Ther's a brave Castle of three miles long. 

Pun. I, and many stately building too. 

yob. The noble mens houses are all built of Marble. 

Fun. They make indeed a glorious show. I ha' seen 'um. 

Job. It may be so. But to my knowledg, friend, there is 
no such City there. 

Pun. It may be the names are alter'd since I was there. 
(Here's the Captain, I'll sneak behind the hangings.) 

AS. 5. Scaen. 10. 

Dogrely Punyj JVillianiy Jobn^ Bladiy ff^idow. 

Bla. I like this Person well, h' has made short work on't, 
he had appointed sure some mcc[t]ing at an Ale-house. Wel- 
come wife, welcome home now. But I ha' two brethren 
which you must know. 

fVid. Marry, Heav'ns foresheild, Sir. 

Bla. Brethren in God sweet-heart, no otherwise. Come 
hither Guiny brother ; what say you ? 

fVilL This Gentleman, Brother, has stay'd for you here; 
pray use him kindly, he's a Traveller : where did you say you 
traveU'd, Sir ? 

Bla. O yes ! How do you, brother ? 

Dog. I your brother ? what d'ye mean ? 

Bla. Why, are not you my brother Blade that was taken 
captive by the Tartars r Ha f 

Dog. You're merrily dispos'd. Sir : I your brother ! I taken 
captive by the Tartars ! Ha, ha, ha ! I understand not your 
meaning. Sir. 

Bla. What an impudent slave's this I Sirrah monster, 
didst not thou come with thy man John ? 

Dog. I, my man Jobn? here's no such fellow here, you 
see : how you're mistaken. Sir ! you mean some other man. 
This is the strangest humour. 



Bla. Sirrah, dost thou see this fist ? dost thou see this foot ? 
ril wear these out upon thee — 

Dog. Hold, pray Sir, hold. I remember now indeed that I 
was Bladi the Merchant; but I had quite forgot it. You 
must pardon me ; my memory's very weak. 

Bla. I like the hiunour. But I must know, Sir, who you 
are, now you ha' left being my brother. 

Dog. Who, I ? don't you know me ? I'm Dogrel the Poet, 
and Puny was my man John. Lord that you should not know 
me all this while I not know Poet Dognl! 

Why I intended here this merry play, 
To solemnize your nuptial-day. 

Wid. O thank you, M. Dogrel 'y Can you dance upon the 
ropes, and tumble ? Truely I never knew it before, not I. 

Bla. Where's that fool. Puny ? Is he slipt away ? 

Pun. (He was wise enough to do so, I'll warrant you.) 

Bla. I will beat him so, that he shall not finde a similitude 
for himself. As for you, Dogrely because you came ofiF pretty 
handsomely, with the best at the last, like an Epigram, I may 
chance to pardon you ; but upon this condition, that you make 
no Epithalamiums upon my marriage. 

Well said, Wtll\ bravely done, IVUI\ i' fiiith u *. n 
thou shalt ha' two laces more to thy Livery, for ^F- 
doing this so well. I told thee, Willy what 'twas ^' ^ 
to have a6ted the Bear in Mundorus. And Ralph ^ 
was a brave John too— 

Dog. How's this ? I plainly see I'm an Ass then : 'twas 
this damn'd Puny^s fearfiilness spoil'd all. 

Pun. (A pox o' this coward Dogrel: I thought they were 
not the right ones.) 

Bla. 1 see my Players had more wit then my Poet. Here's 
something for you to drink. Go in now : this is your Cue of 
Exit ; and see all things there in a readiness. 

Will. Nay, let the Master go first. Follow me, John. 

Exeunt Will, and Ralph. 

Wid. What, husband ? Ha' you giv'n 'um any thing ? 
Indeed, Love, you're too lavish. 

Dog. 'Twas very wittily put ofiF o' me, howsoever. 





Bladi, IVidaw, Dogrel, Puny, Culter, and Taiyiha, 
with Fidltrs hefirt 'urn. 

low ? what ha' we here ? another Puppet-play } 

but brothers, and I'm for 'um. Who ? Cutter? 
:er, Poet ? Come, what device is this ? iike one 

Bla. How 
Any thing no\ 
What's the mi 
o' yours ? 

Cut. Stay at the door, ye sempiternal squeakers. Come, 

Tab. Lord, I'm so weary with dancing as passes. Yondcr*B 

my mother. Oh mother ! what d'ye think I ha' been doing 
to day ? 

md Why what, childe 

Tab. Nay nothing: I have onely been married a little; and 
my husband and I ha' so danced it since ! 

Cat. Brave Tabytha still ! Never be angry. Widow ; you 
know where Marriages are made. How now, Captain ? If I 
turn Tapster now, 'twill be happie for you; for I shall be rich 
enough to trust you, Captain. 

IVid. 'Twas Gods will, I see, and therefore there's no 
resisting. But what d'ye mean, son ? I hope you'll not turn 
swaggerer ? 

Cut. Tis for special reasons, gentle mother. Why how 
now, Dagrtl? M. Blade the Merchant looks as if he were 
broke: he has turn'd away his servant too. 

Tab. Who "s that ? M, Dagrtl i' these Players clothes ? 
Can M. Dagrel dance too, husband f 

Bla. Prithee, Cutter^ what hath exalted Tabytha thus? 

Cut. What? this good fortune she has got by me: You 
know what a dull creature she was before ; her soul was in her 
body, like butter in a hot cake ; now she's as full of Spirits as 
HeD it self. My counsel and two cups o' Sack, have wrought 
this miracle. 



Scaen. 1 2. 

To these, Truman Pater, Truman Filius, Lucia veil'd. 

Tru. p. Well said ! You arc joyn'd then now, my blessing 
on you both ; come in to your father Blade. Nay, daughte 


Aure/ia, off with your 
married here ? 

Tru. f. I Itnow not, Sir. 


B/a. This is my daught 
Ho! yfureliai 

Whom ha' you 

She was Auntia when \ 

Where's the wench ? 

Aft. 5. Scsen. 13. 

To them, Aurelia. 

Aur. Here, Sir. 

Bia. Here, Sir? Why do you make your husband lead 
your maid in thus? 

Aur. My husband, Sir ? 

Bla. Why, huswife is n 

Aur. No, by my troth, 

Tru. p. These are fini 
Sirrah, how durst you Sir 

■ husband ? 

what's that ? 

)t Mr. Truman ya 

Mf, I thank God. 

tricks; delicate, dainty tricks. 

rah ? — and for your minion — marry 

come up, marry a Chamber-maid ? Well, Captain, this was 
your plotting. You said indeed you'd make a telhron o' me : y' 
ha' don't indeed ; I thank you, Captain Blade, 'tis well. Out 
o' my sight. Sir, with your minion there, I say out o' my sight. 
Ha ! am I fool'd thus? I shall make some repent it, I hold a 
groat c on't. 

Bla. D'ye hear, Mr. Truman — 

Tru. p. Yes, Sir, I do hear ; and I will not hear if it please 
me, Sir ; but some body shall hear o' this Captain. But, 
Captain, you're deceived, this is not a lawful marriage. 

Luc. Pray, hear me all ; for I shall tell those things 
That will appease your wrath, and move your wonder. 
I've married Truman, and I will enjoy him, 



And he wiU love me, I am sure he will; 
For I am Lucia, the much injure'd Liuia. 

Omn. Ha ! 

Ltu. The habit of a servant I put on, 
That I might findc who 'twas I ought to pardon, 
For all the wrongs done to me. I nave found it, 
Cosen, ^ou know I have, and I forgive 'um. 

Aur, Then all m^ plots are spoii'd. Pardon me, Cousin: 
And, Mr. Truman, know you have a wife 
That is as pure and innocent as the thoughts 
Of dying Saints ? 'Twas I that with the veile 
Deceiv'd you in the Prison ; it was I, 
Who in that veile contrafted my self to Puny. 
Forgive me both ; I do confess I've wrong'd you. 
But Heav'n has seen you righted. 

Tru. f. O this blest hour 1 
What shall I say ? I know thou art all goodness, 
But canst thou pardon, Luda, that great sin, 
That high and mighty sin which I have done 
In doubting of thy faith i I fear thou canst not. 

Luc. I do desire no more then that I may, 
Deserve your better opinion, Sir, hereafter. 
And uncle for your poyson — 

Bia. Speak no more of it, 
I do confess it, Necce; and shall most willingly 
Surrender up the charge of your Estate. 
It hath pleas'd Heav'n to restore me mine own 
By marriage with this Widow. 

Tru. p. Ha, ha, ha ! To see how things are come about ! 
I thought Did would not be such a fool as to marry one that 
he knew not. He knew her well enough, I'll warrant you. 
How do you, Capuin ? I was somewhat rash : I'm an old 
man, alas. 

Bia. Cutler, and M. Dugrel, you that sneak there ; 
You're precious witnesses. But no more o' that. 
You have been to blame, Aurelia. But 'tis past. 
We want your husband here : Where's Puny ? 

Pun. (I'll venture out amongst 'um.) Enter Puny. 

Nay ne'er laugh at me ; I know I look tike a door without 
hinges. A pox upon you, Dogrel j are you there \ 


Bla. What ? mjr son yohn ? d'ye know this Gentlewoman ? 

Aur. D*ye know this piece of gold, Sir, which you broke ? 

Pun. Hum ? Yes '&ith, 'tis the same : thou art my Cynthioy 
wench, my Endymtoni we'll be married presently. O for a 
witty Parson to marry us two Wits ! 

Dog. 'Slife, one, two, three, i'faith four matches here at 
one time 1 What accursed fortune's this ! there's three feasts 
lost : they'll dine all together. 

Pun, I will not kiss thee, my little magazine, till I have 
washt my face. Ha, M. Dogrely hast thou got no Spouse too ? 

Dog. The thrice three Sisters are my wives. 

Pun. Well, because thou art a Poet, and my Jews-trump 
and I are Wits, thou shalt eat and drink at my pavilion always. 

j/ur. You shall ha* wine and serge. D'ye remember, 

Dog. Thank you: but I'll ne'er lye for you again. 

Bla. Come, let's all in to dinner. 

C II. 


The Epilogue. 

THe Play is done^ great Princey which needs must fiar^ 
Though you brought all your fathers mercies ben^ 
It may offend your Highness^ and we^ve now 
Three hours done treason herey for ought we know. 
But pow^r your Grace can above Nature give ; 
// can give pow^r to make abortives live. 
In which if our bold wishes should be crosty 
*Tis but the life of one poor week thai*s lost. 
Though it should fall beneath your present scorny 
It could not die sooner then it was born. 




For the 




By A. Cowley. 



Printed by J. M. for Henry Htrringman ; and are to be 

sold at his Shop at the Sign of the Blew-Aiuhor in the 

Lower- Walk of the New-Exchange, 1661. 

To the Honourable Society for the 
Advancement of Experimental 

THe Author of the following discourse, having since his 
going into France allowed me to make it publick, I 
thought I should do it most right by presenting it to Your 
Considerations; to the end that when it hath been fully 
examin'd by You, and receiv'd such Additions or Alterations as 
You shall think fit, the Design thereof may be promoted by 
Your recommending the Practice of it to the Nation. I am, 

Your most humble Servant^ 

P. P. 

The Preface. 

ALL Knowledge must either be of Gody or of his Creatures j 
that isy of Nature; the first is called from the Obje£f^ 
Divinity ; the latter^ Natural Philosophy, and is divided into the 
Contemplation of the Immediate or Mediate Creatures of God^ that 
iSy the Creatures of his Creature Man, Of this latter kind are 
all Arts for the use of Humane Lifty which are thus again divided: 
Some are purely Humane^ or made by Man alone^ and as it were 
intirely sfmn out of himself without relation to other Creatures^ 
such are Grammar and Logick, to improve his Natural S^ualities 
of Internal and External speech ; as likewise Rhetorick and Poli- 
ticks {or Law) to fulfill and exalt his Natural Inclination to 
Society, Other are mixty and are Mans Creatures no otherwise 
then by the Result which he effe£ls by Conjunction and Application 
of the Creatures of God, Of these parts of Philosophy that which 
treats of God Almighty {properly called Divinity) which is almost 
only to be sought out of his revealed willy and therefore requires only 
the diligent and pious study of that y and of the best Interpreters upon 
it 5 and that part which I call purely Humaney depending solely 


upon Memory and ff^ity that isy Reading and Invention^ are both 
excellently well provided for by the Constitution of our Universities, 
But the other two PartSy the Inquisition into the Nature of Gods 
CreatureSy and the Application of them to Humane Uses {especially 
the latter) seem to he very slenderly provided fory or rather almost 
totally negle£ledy except onely some small assistances to Physicky and the 
Mathematicks, And therefore the Founders of our Colledges have 
taken ample care to supply the Students with multitude ofBooksy and 
to appoint Tutors and frequent ExerciseSy the one to interprety and 
the other to confirm their Readingy as also to afford them sufficient 
plenty and leisure for the opportunities of their private studyy that 
the Beams which they receive by Le£fure may be doubled by RefleC' 
tions of their own Wit : But towards the Observation and Appli- 
1' cationy as I saidy of the Creatures themsehesy they have allowed no 
■ InstrumentSy Materialsy or Conveniences, Partly^ because the 
necessary expence thereof is much greater y then of the other ; and 
partly from that idle and pernicious opinion which had long possest 
the fVorldy that all things to be searcht in NaturCy had been already 
found and discovered by the AncientSy and that it were a folly to 
travel about for that which others had before brought home to us. 
And the great Importer of all Truths they took to be Aristotle, as if 
{as Macrobius speaks foolishly of Hippocrates) he could neither 
deceive nor be deceivedy or as if there had been not only no lies 
in himy but all f^erities, O true Philosophers in one sence! and 
contented with a very Little! Not that I would disparage the 
admirable IVity and worthy labours of many of the AncientSy much 
less 0/* Aristotle, the most eminent among them ; but it were madness 
to imagine that the Cisterns of men should afford us as muchj and as 
wholesome IVaterSy as the Fountains of Nature. As we understand 
the manners of men by conversation among themy and not by reeuling 
RomanceSy the same is our case in the true Apprehension bf yudge- 
ment of Things. And no man can hope to make himself as rich by 
stealing out of others Truncksy as he might by opening and digging of 
new Mines. If he conceive that all are already exhausted^ Ut him 
consider that many lazily thought so hundred years agOy and yet 
nevertheless since that time whole Regions of Art have been dis- 
coveredy which the Ancients as little dreamt of as they did of 
America. There is yet many a Terra Incognita behind to exerdst 
our diligenccy and let us exercise it never so muchy we shall leave 
work enough too for our Posterity. 



This therefore being laid down as a certain Foundationy that we 
must not content our selves with that Inheritance of Knowledge which 
is left us by the labour and bounty of our Ancestors^ but seek to 
improve those very grounds^ and adae to them new and greater 
Purchases ; it remains to be considered by what means we are most 
likely to attain the ends of this vertuous Covetousness. 

And certainly the solitary and unaSfive Contemplation of Nature ^ 
hy the most ingenious Persons living^ in their own private Studies^ 
can never effe£l it. Our Reasoning Faculty as well as Fancy^ do'^{ 
hut Dreanij when it is not guided by sensible Obje^s. ff^e shall \ 
confound where Nature has divided^ and divide where Nature has 
compounded^ and create nothing but either Deformed Monsters^ or at 
best pretty but impossible Mermaids. *Tis like Painting by Memory 
and Imagination which can never produce a PiSfure to the Life^ 
Many Persons of admirable abilities {if they had been wisely 
managed and profitably employed) have spent their whole time and 
diligence in commentating upon Aristotles Philosophy^ who could 
never go beyond him^ because their design was only to follow^ not 
grasp^ or lay hold on^ or so much as touch Nature^ because they catcht 
only at the shadow of her in their own Brains, And therefore we 
see that for above a thousand years together nothing almost of Orna^ 
ment or Advantage was added to the Uses of Humane Societju 
except only Guns and Printing^ whereas since the Industry of Merr\ 
has ventured to go abroad^ out of Books and out of Themselves^ and I 
to work among Gods Creatures^ instead of Playing among their 
OwHy every age has abounded with excellent Inventions^ and every 
yeetr perhaps might do so, if a considerable number of sele£l Persons 
were set apart, and well directed, and plentifully provided for the^ 
search of them. But our Universities having been founded in those 
firmer times that I complain of it is no wonder if they be defeSiive 
in their Constitution as to this way of Learning, which was not 
tben thought on. 

For the supplying of which Defeat, it is humbly proposed to his 
Sacred Majesty, his most Honourable Parliament, and Privy 
Council, and to all such of his SubjeSfs as are willing and able to 
contribute any thing towards the advancement of real and useful 
Learning, that by their Authority, Encouragement, Patronage, and 
Bounty, a Philosophical CoUedge may be erected, after this ensuing, 
or some such like Model. 


The Colledge. 

THat the Phitosophical Colledge be scituated within one, 
two, or (at farthest) three miles of Lond[o]nj and, if it be 
possible to find that convenience, upon the side of the River, or 
very near it. 

That the Revenue of this Colledge amount to four thousand 
pounds a year. 

That the Company received into it be as follows. 

I. Twenty Philosophers or Professors. 2. Sixteen young 
Scholars, Servants to the Professors. 3. A Chaplain, 4. A 
Baily for the Revenue. 5. A Manciple or Purveyour for the 
provisions of the House. 6. Two Gardeners. 7. A Master- 
Cook. 8. An Under-Cook. 9. A Butler. 10. An Under- 
Butler. II. A Chirurgeon. 12. Two Lungs, or Chymical 
Servants. 13. A Library-keeper who is likewise to be Apothe- 
cary, Druggist, and Keeper of Instruments, Engines, &r. 
14. An Officer to feed and take care of all Beasts, Fowl, Wc. 
kept by the Colledge. 1 5. A Groom of the Stable. 16. A Mes- 
senger to send up and down for all uses of the Colledge. 
17. Four old Women, to tend the Chambers, keep the House 
clean, and such like services. 

That the annual allowance for this Company be as follows. 
I, To every Professor, and to the Chaplain, one hundred and 
twenty Pounds. 2. To the sixteen Scholars 20* a piece, 10* 
for their diet, and 10' for their Entertainment. 3. To the 
Baily 30* besides allowance for his Journeys. 4. To the Pur- 
veyour or Manciple thirty pounds. 5. To each of the Gar- 
deners twenty Pounds. 6. To the Master-Cook twenty 
Pounds. 7. To the Under-Cook four Pounds. 8. To the 
Butler ten Pounds. 9. To the Under-Butler four Pounds. 
10. To the Chirurgeon thirty Pounds. 11. To the Library- 
Keeper thirty Pounds. 12. To each of the Lungs twelve 
Pounds. 13. To the Keeper of the Beasts six Pounds. 14. 
To the Groom five Pounds. 15. To the Messenger twelve 
Pounds. 16. To the four necessary Women ten Pounds. 
For the Manciples Table at which all the Servants of the 



House arc to eat, except the Scholars, one hundred sixty 
Pounds. For 3 Horses for the Service of the Colledgc, thirty 

All which amounts to three thousand two hundred eighty 
five Pounds. So that there remains for keeping of the House 
and Gardens, and Operatories, and Instruments, and Animals, 
and Experiments of all sorts, and al! other expcnces, seven 
hundred Sc 6ftccn Pounds. 

Which were a very inconsiderable sum for the great uses to 
which it is designed, but that J conceive the Industry of the 
Cotlcdge will in a short time so enrich it self as 10 get a far 
better Stock for the advance and cnlargemeni of the work when 
it is once begun ; neither is the continuance of particular mens 
liberality to be despaired of, when it shall be encouraged by the 
sight of that publick benefit which will accrue to ail Mankind, 
and chiefly to our Nation, by this Foundation. Something 
likewise will arise from Leases and other Casualties; that 
nothing of which may be diverted to the private gain of the 
Professors, or any other use besides that of the search of Nature, 
and by it the general good of the world, and that care may be 
taken for the certain performance of all things ordained by the 
Institution, as likewise for the proteiftion and encouragement of 
the Company, it is proposed. 

That some Person ofEminentQiiality.a Lover of solid Learn- 
ing, and no Stranger in it, be chosen Chancellour or President 
of the Colledge, and that eight Governours more, men qualified 
in the like manner, be joyned with him, two of which shall 
yearly be appointed Visitors of the Colledge, and receive an 
exst& account of all expences even to the smallest, and of the 
true estate of their publick Treasure, under the hands and oaths 
of the Professors Resident. 

That the choice of the Professors in any vacancy belong to 
the Chancellour and the Governours, but that the Professors 
(who are likeliest to know what men of the Nation are most 
proper for the duties of their Society) dire<ft their choice by 
recommending two or three persons to them at every Eleftion. 
And that if any learned Person within his Majesties Dominions 
discover or eminently improve any useful kind of knowledge, 
he nnay upon that ground for his reward and the encouragement 
of others, be prcferr'd, if he pretend to the place, before any 
body else. 


That the Governours have power to turn out any Profeisor 
who shall be proved to be either scandalous or unprofitable to 
the Society. 

That the Colledge be built after this, or some such manner: 
That it consist of three fair Quadrangular Courts, and three 
large grounds, enclosed with good walls behind them. That 
the first Court be built with a fair Cloyster, and the Professors 
Lodgings or rather little Houses, four on each side at some 
distance from one another, and with little Gardens behind 
them, just after the manner of the Chartreux beyond Sea. 
That the inside of the Cloyster be lined with a Gravel-walk, 
and that walk with a row of Trees, and that in the middle 
there be a Parterre of Flowers, and a Fountain. 

That the second Quadrangle just behind the first, be so 
contrived, as to contain these parts, i. A Chappel. 2. A 
Hall with two long Tables on each side for the Scholars and 
Officers of the House to eat at, and with a Pulpit and Forms at 
the end for the publick Lectures. 3. A large and pleasant 
Dining-Room within the Hall for the Professors to eat in, and 
to hold their Assemblies and Conferences. 4. A publick 
School-house. 5. A Library. 6. A Gallery to walk in, 
adorned with the Pidlures or Statues of all the Inventors of any 
thing useful to Humane Life ; as Printing, Guns, AmericOy i^c. 
and of late in Anatomy, the "Circulation of the Blood, the 
Milky Veins, and such like discoveries in any Art, with short 
Elogies under the Portraitures : As likewise the Figures of all 
sorts of Creatures, and the stuft skins of as many strange 
Animals as can be gotten. 7. An Anatomy Chamber adom«i 
with Skeletons and Anatomical Pidlures, and prepared with all 
conveniences for Dissection. 8. A Chamber for all manner of 
Druggs, and Apothecaries Materials. 9. A Mathematical 
Chamber fiirnisht with all sorts of Mathematical Instruments, 
being an Appendix to the Library. 10. Lodgings for the 
Chaplain, Chirurgeon, Library- Keeper and Purveyour, near the 
Chappel, Anatomy Chamber, Library and Hall. 

That the third Court be on one side of these, very large, 
but meanly built, being designed only for use and not for 
beauty too, as the others. That it contain the Kitchin, But- 
teries, Brew-house, Bake-house, Dairy, Lardry, Stables, &c. and 
especially great Laboratories for Chymical Operations, and 
Lodgings for the Under-servants. 



That behind the second Court be placed the Garden, con- 
taining all sorts of Plants that our Soil will bear, and at the end 
a little House of pleasure, a Lodge for the Gardener, and a 
Grove of Trees cut out into Walks. 

That the second enclosed ground be a Garden, destined 
only to the tryal of all manner of Experiments concerning 
Plants, as their Melioration, Acceleration, Retardation, Conser- 
vation, Composition, Transmutation, Coloration, or whatsoever 
else can be produced by Art either for use or curiosity, with a 
Lodge in it for the Gardener. 

That the third Ground be employed in convenient Recep- 
tacles for all sorts of Creatures which the Professors shall judge 
necessary for their more exa£t search into the nature of Animals, 
and the improvement of their Uses to us. 

That there be likewise built in some place of the CoUedge 
where it may serve most for Ornament of the whole, a very 
high Tower for observation of Celestial Bodies, adorned with 
all sorts of Dyals and such like Curiosities ; and that there be 
very deep Vaults made under ground, for Experiments most 
proper to such places, which will be undoubtedly very many. 

Much might be added, but truly I am afraid this is too 
much already for the chanty or generosity of this age to extend 
to ; and we do not design this after the Model of Solomons 
House in my Lord Bacon (which is a Projeft for Experiments 
that can never be Experimented) but propose it within such 
bounds of Expence as have often been exceeded by the Build- 
ings of private Citizens. 

Of the Professors^ Scholars^ Chaplain^ and 

other Officers. 

THat of the twenty Professors four be always travelling 
beyond Seas, and sixteen always Resident, unless by per- 
mission upon extraordinary occasions, and every one so absent, 
leaving a Deputy behind him to supply his Duties. 

That the four Professors Itinerant be assigned to the four 
psuts of the World, Europe^ Asioy Afrique^ and Americay there 



to reside three years at least, and to give a constant account of 
all things that belong to the Learning, and especially Natural 
Experimental Philosophy of those parts. 

That the expence of all Dispatches, and all Books, Simples, 
Animals, Stones, Metals, Minerals, £2fr. and all curiosities what- 
soever, natural or artificial, sent by them to the Colledee, shall 
be defrayed out of the Treasury, and an additional allowance 
(above the 120') made to them as soon as the CoUedges 
Revenue shall be improved. 

That at their going abroad they shall take a solemn Oath 
never to write any thing to the CoIIedge, but what after very 
diligent Examination, they shall fully believe to be true, and to 
confess and recant it as soon as they find themselves in an 

That the sixteen Professors Resident shall be bound to 
J study and teach all sorts of Natural, Experimental Philosophy, 
to consist of the Mathematicks, Mechanicks, Medicine, Ana- 
tomy, Chymistry, the History of Animals, Plants, Minerals, 
Elements, isfc. Agriculture, Architecture, Art Military, Navi- 
gation, Gardening ; The Mysteries of all Trades, and Improve- 
ment of them ; The Failure of all Merchandizes, all Natural 
Magick or Divination ; and briefly all things contained in the 
Catalogue of Natural Histories annexed to My Lord Bacon's 

That once a day from Easter till Michaelmas^ and twice a 
week from Michaelmas to Easter^ at the hours in the afternoon 
most convenient for Auditors from London according to the 
time of the year, there shall be a Ledlure read in the Hall, upon 
such parts of Natural Experimental Philosophy, as the Pro- 
fessors shall agree on among themselves, and as each of them 
shall be able to (>erform useftiUy and honourably. 

That two of the Professors by daily, weekly, or monethly 
turns shall teach the publick Schools according to the Rules 
hereafter prescribed. 

That all the Professors shall be equal in all respedls (except 
precedency, choice of Lodging, and such like priviledees, which 
shall belong to Seniority in the Colledge) and that all shall be 
Masters and Treasurers by annual turns, which two 0£Scers 
for the time being shall take place of all the rest, and shall be 
Arbitri duarum Mensarum. 



Tliat the Master shall command all the Officers of the Col- 
ledge, appoint Assemblies or Conferences upon occasion, and 
preside in them with a double voice, and in his absence the 
Treasurer, whose business is to receive and disburse all moneys 
by the Masters order in writing, (if it be an extraordinary) 
after consent of the other Professors. 

That all the Professors shall sup together in the Parlour 
within the Hall every night, and shall dine there twice a week 
(to wit Sundays and Thursdays) at two round Tables for the 
convenience of discourse, which shall be for the most part of 
such matters as may improve their Studies and Professions, and 
to keep them from falling into loose or unprofitable talk shall be 
the duty of the two Arbitri Mensaruniy who may likewise com- 
mand any of the Servant-Scholars to read to them what he shall 
think fit, whilst they are at table : That it shall belong likewise 
to the said Arbitri Mensarum only, to invite Strangers, which 
they shall rarely do, unless they be men of Learning or great 
Parts, and shall not invite above two at a time to one table, 
nothing being more vain and unfruitful then numerous Meet- 
ings of Acquaintance. 

That the Professors Resident shall allow the CoUedge 
twenty Pounds a year for their Diet, whether they continue 
there all the time or not. 

Tliat they shall have once a week an Assembly or Con- 
ference concerning the Afiairs of the CoUedge and the progress 
of their Experimental Philosophy. 

That if any one find out any thing which he conceives to 
be of consequence, he shall communicate it to the Assembly to 
be examined, experimented, approved or rejected. 

That if anv one be Author of an Invention that may brine 
in profit, the third part of it shall belong to the Inventor, and 
the two other to the Society ; and besides if the thing be very 
considerable, his Statue or Pidlure with an Elogy under it, shall 
be placed in the Gallery, and made a Denison of that Corpo- 
ration of famous Men. 

That all the Professors shall be always assigned to some 
particular Inquisition (besides the ordinary course of their 
Studies) of which they shall give an account to the Assembly, 
so that by this means there may be every day some operation 
or other made in all the Arts, as Chymistry, Anatomy, Me- 



chanicks, and the like, and that the CoUedge shall furnish for 
the charge of the operation. 

That there shall be kept a Register under lock and key, and 
not to be seen but by the Professors, of all the Experiments 
that succeed, signed by the persons who made the trysdl. 

That the popular and received Errours in Experimental 
Philosophy (with which, like Weeds in a negledled Garden it is 
now almost all overgrown) shall be evinced by tryal, and taken 
notice of in the publick Ledlures, that they may no longo^ 
abuse the credulous, and beget new ones by consequence or 

That every third year (after the ftill settlement of the 
Foundation) the Colledge shall give an account in Print, in 

f roper and ancient Latine, of the fruits of their triennial 

That every Professor Resident shall have his Scholar to 
wait upon him in his Chamber and at Table, whom he diall 
be obliged to breed up in Natural Philosophy, and render 
an account of his progress to the Assembly, from whose 
Election he received him, and therefore is responsible to it, 
both for the care of his Education, and the just and civil usage 
of him. 

That the Scholar shall understand Latine very well, and be 
moderately initiated in the Greek before he be capable of being 
chosen into the Service, and that he shall not remain in it 
above seven years. 

That his Lodging shall be with the Professor whom he 

That no Professor shall be a married man, or a Divine, or 
Lawyer in praftice, only Physick he may be allowed to pre- 
scribe, because the study of that Art is a great part of the duty 
of his place, and the duty of that is so great, that it will not 
suffer him to lose much time in mercenary pradtice. 

That the Professors shall in the Colledge wear the habit of 
ordinary Masters of Art in the Universities, or of Doctors, if 
any of them be so. 

That they shall all keep an inviolable and exemplary friend- 
ship with one another, and that the Assembly shall lay a con- 
siderable pecuniary muldt upon any one who shall be proved to 
have entered so far into a quarrel as to give uncivil Language to 



i Brother-Professor ; and that the perseverance in any enmity 
shall be punish'd by the Governours with expulsion. 

That the Chaplain shall eat at the Masters Table, (paying 
his twenty pounds a year as the others do) and that he shall 
read Prayers once a day at least, a little before Supper-time ; 
that he shall preach in the Chappel every Sunday Morning, and 
Catechize in the Aficr-noon the Scholars and the School-boys ; 
that he shall every moneth administer the Holy Sacrament; 
that he shall not trouble himself and his Auditors with the 
Controversies of Divinity, but only teach God in hlg just Com- 
miuidments, and in his wonderful Works. 

rbe Sch[o'\oi. 

THat the School may be built so as to contain about two 
hundred Boys. 

That it be divided into four Classes, not as others are ordi- \ 
narily into six or seven, because we suppose that the Children 
sent hither to be initialed in Things as well as Words, ought 
to have past the two or three first, and to have attained the age ' I 
of about thirteen years, being already we[l]l advanced in the 
Latine Grammar, and some Authors. y* 

That none, though never so rich, shall pay any thing for 
their teaching; and that if any Professor shall be convicted to 
have taken any money in consideration of his pains in the 
School, he shall be expelled with ignominie by the Governours; 
but if any persons of great estate and quality, finding their 
Sons much better Proficients in Learning here, then Boys of 
the same age commonly arc at other Schools, shall not think fit 
to receive an obligation of so near concernment without return- 
ing some marks of acknowledgement, they may, if they please 
(for nothing is to be demanded) bestow some little rarity or 
curiosity upon the Society in recompencc of their trouble. \ 

And because it is deplorable to consider the loss which N 
Children make of their time at most Schools, employing, or 
rather casting away six or seven years in the learning of words 
only, and that too very Imperfcflly : / 

That a Method be here established for the infusing Know- 
nd Language at the same time into them ; and that this 



may be their Apprenticeship in Natural Philosophy. This we 
conceive may be done, by breeding them up in Authors, or 
pieces of Authors, who treat of some parts of Nature, and who 
may be understood with as much ease and pleasure, as those 
which are commonly taught; Such are in Latine f^arroy Cat$y 
Co/umellay P/inyy part of Ce/susj and of SenecOy Cicero di Divina^ 
tionty de NaturA Deorurriy and several scattered pieces, f^irpFs 
GeorgickSy GrotiuSy Ne[m]e5ianuSy Manilius ; and because the truth 
is we want good Poets (I mean we have but few) who have 
purposely treated of solid and learned, that is. Natural Matters 
(the most part indulging to the weakness of the world, and 
feeding it either with the follies of Love, or with the Fables of 
gods and Heroes) we conceive that one Book ought to be com- 
piled of all the scattered little parcels among the ancient Poets 
that might serve for the advancement of Natural Science, and 
which would make no small or unuseful or unpleasant Volum[e]. 
To this we would have added the Morals and Rhetoricks of 
Ciceroy and the Institutions of ^intillan ; and for the Co- 
moedians, from whom almost all that necessary part of common 
discourse, and all the most intimate proprieties of the Language 
are drawn, we conceive the Boys may be made Masters of 
them, as a part of their Recreation and not of their task, if once 
a moneth, or at least once in two, they aft one of Terencei 
Comoedies, and afterwards (the most advanced) some of Plautus 
his ; and this is for many reasons one of the best exercises they 
can be enjoyned, and most innocent pleasures they can fale 
allowed. As for the Greek Authors, they may study Nicandefy 
Oppianus (whom Scallger does not doubt to prefer above Homer 
himself, and place next to his adored Firgil) Aristotles History 
of Animals, and other parts, Theophrastus and Dmcorides of 
Plants, and a Colleftion made out of several both Poets and 
other Grecian Writers. For the Morals and Rhetorick ArisUtb 
may suffice, or Hermogenes and Longinus be added for the latter; 
with the History of Animals they should be shewed Anatomy 
as a Divertisement, and made to know the Figures and Natures 
of those Creatures which are not common among iis, disabusing 
them at the same time of those Errours which are imiversally 
admitted concerning many. The same Method should be used 
to make them acquainted with all Plants; and to this miist be 
added a little of the ancient and modern Geography, the under- 



Standing of the Globes, and the Principles of Geometry i 
Astronomy. They should likewise use to declaim in Lume 
and English, as the Romans did in Greek and Latine ; and in 
all this travel be rather led on by tarailiarity, encouragement, 
and emulation, then driven by severity, punishment, and terrour. 
Upon Festivals and playtimes they should exercise themselves 
in the Fields by riding, leaping, fencing, mustering and training 
after the manner of Souldiers, Es^c and to prevent all dangers 
and all disorder, there should always be two of the Scholars 
with them to be as witnesses and direftors of their anions ; In 
foul weather it would not be amiss for them to learn to dance, 
that is, to learn just so much [for all beyond is superfluous, if 
not worse) as may give them a graceful comportment of their 

Upon Sundays, and all days of Devotion, they are to be 
a part of the Chaplains Province. 

That for ail these ends the Coiledge so order it, as that 
there may be some convenient & pleasant Houses thereabouts, 
kept by religious, discreet, and careful persons, for the lodging 
and bearding of young Scholars, that they have a constant eye 
over them to see that they be bred up there piously, cleanly, and 
plentifully, according to the proportion of their parents expences. 

And that the Coiledge, when it shall please God cither by 
their own industry and success, or by the benevolence of 
Patrons, to enrich them so far, as that it may come to their 
lum and duty to be charitable to others, shall at their own 
charges ereO and maintain some House or Houses for the 
Entertainment of such poor me-ns Sons whose good Natural 
Parts may promise either Use or Ornament to the Common- 
wealth, during the time of their abode at School, and shall take 
care that it shall be done with the same conveniences as are 
enjoyed even by rich mens Children (though they maintain the 
fewer for that cause) there being nothing of eminent and illus- 
trious to be cxpeflcd from a low, sordid, and Hospital-like 



IF I be not much abused by a natural fondness to my own 
Conceptions (that arofyytf of the Greeks, which no other 
Language has a proper word for) there was never any Projefi 
thought upon, which deserves to meet with so few Adversaries 
as this ; for who can without impudent folly oppose the estab- 
lishment of twenty well seledted persons in such a condition of 
Life, that their whole business and sole profession may be to 
study the improvement and advantage of all other Protessions, 
from that of the highest General even to the lowest Artisan ? 
Who shall be oblieed to imploy their whole time, wit, learning, 
and industry, to these four, the most useful that can be ima- 
gined, and to no other Ends; first, to weigh, examine, and 
prove all things of Nature delivered to us by former ages, to 
detect, explode, and strike a censure through all false Monies 
with which the world has been paid and cheated so long, and 
(as I may say) to set the mark of the CoUedge upon all true 
Coins that they may pass hereafter without any farther Tryal. 
Secondly, to recover the lost Inventions, and, as it were, Drown'd 
Lands of the Ancients. Thirdly, to improve all Arts which 
we now have ; And lastlv, to discover others which we yet 
have not. And who shall besides all this (as a Benefit by the 
by) give the best Education in the world (purely gratis) to as 
many mens Children as shall think fit to make use of the Obli- 
gation. Neither does it at all check or enterfere with any 
parties in State or Religion, but is indifferently to be embraced 
by all Differences in opinion, and can hardly be conceived 
capable (as many good Institutions have done) even of Degene- 
ration into any thing harmful. So that, all things considered, I 
will suppose this Proposition shall encounter with no Enemies, 
the only Question is, whether it will find Friends enough to 
carry it on from Discourse and Design to Reality and EffeA ; 
the necessary Expences of the Beginning (for it will maintain it 
self well enough afterwards) being so great (though I have set 
them as low as is possible in order to so vast a work) that 
it may seem hopeless to raise such a sum out of those few dead 
Reliques of Humane Charity and Publick Generosity which are 
yet remaining in the World. 







The Scene LONDON, 
in the year 1658. 

Written by 

Abraham Cowley. 


Printed for Henry Herringman at the Sign of the 
Anchor in the Lower walk in the New-Exchange. 

Anno Dem. 1663. 


A Comedy^ called the Guardian, and made by me when I was 
very Youngy was A£ted formerly at Camebridge, and several 
times after privately during the troubles^ as I am toldy with good 
approbation^ as it has been lately too at Dublin. There being many 
things in it which I disliked^ and finding my self for some dayes idle^ 
and alone in the Countrey^ I fell upon the changing of it almost wholly ^ 
as now it isj and as it was played since at his Royal Highnesses 
Theatre under this New name. It met at the first representation 
with no favourable reception^ and I think there was something of 
Faction against ity by the early appearance of some merCs dis~ 
approbation before they had seen enough of it to build their dislike 
upon their judgment. Afterwards it got some ground^ and found 
Friends as well as Adversarys. In which condition I should 
willingly let it dye^ if the main imputations under which it suffered^ 
bad been shot only against my Wit or Art in these matters^ and not 
dire^ed against the tenderest parts of human reputation^ good Nature^ 
good Manners^ and Piety it self The first clamour which some 
malitious persons raisedy and made a great noise withy waSy That it 
was a piece intended for abuse and Satyre against the Kings party. 
Good God! Against the Kings party? After having served it 
twenty years during all the time of their misfortunes and affliSfionSy 
I must be a very rash and imprudent person if I chose out that of 
their Restitution to begin a S^arrelwith them. I must be too much 
a Madman to be trusted with such an Edg^d Tool as Comedy. 
But firsty why should either the whole party (as it was once 
distinguish by that namey which I hope is abolisht now by Universal 
Loyalty) or any man of virtue or honour in iV, believe themselves 
injured or at all concemedy by the representation of the faults and 
follies of a few who in the General division of the rJation had 
crowded in among them? In all mixt numbers {which is the case 
of Parties) nay^ in the most entire and continued Bodies there are 
often some degenerate and corrupted partSy which may be cast away 
from thaty and even cut off from this Unityy without any infection 

t scandal to the remaining Body. The Church of Rome with all 
arrogancey and her wide pretences of certainty in all Truthsy 
and exemption from all Errorsy does not clap on this enchanted 
Armour of Infallibility upon all her particular Subje^fSy nor is 
offended at the reproof even of her greatest DoSfors. We are noty 



/ hope J become such Puritans our sehes as to assume the Name of the 
Congregation of the Spotless. It is hard for any Party to be so III 
as that no Good^ Impossible to he so Good as that no III should be 
found among them. And it has been the perpetual privilege of Satyre 
and Comedy to pluck their vices and follies though not their Persons 
out of the SanSfuary of any Title. A Cowardly ranting S^uldier^ 
an Ignorant Charlatanical DoSfor^ a foolish Cheating Lawyer^ 
a silly Pedantical Scholar^ have alwayes been^ and ftill are the 
Principal SubjeSfs of all Comedy^ without any scandal given to those 
Honourable Professions^ or ever taken by their severest Professors \ 
And^ if any good Physician or Divine should be offended with me here 
for inveighing against a Si^ack^ or for finding Deacon Soaker tm 
often in the ButteryeSj my respe£l and reverence to their calEngs 
would make me troubled at their displeasure^ but I could net abstain 
from taking them for very Cholerique and Quarrelsome persons. 
JVhat does this therefore amount tOj if it were true which is 
objeSfed? But it is far from being so\ for the representation of two 
Sharks about the Town {fellows merry and Ingenious enough^ and 
therefore admitted into better companyes than they deserve^ yet withaU 
too very scoundrels^ which is no unfrequent Chara£ler at London) 
the representation I say of these as Pretended Officers of the Royal 
Armyy was made for no other purpose but to show the Worlds that 
the vices and extravagancies imputed vulgarly to the CavaKerSj 
were really committed by Aliens who only usurped that nanUy and 
endeavoured to cover the reproach of their Indigency or Infamy 
of their AStions with so honourable a Title. So that the business 
was not here to corre£i or cut off any natural branches^ though never 
so corrupted or Luxuriant^ but to separate and cast away thai 
vermine which by sticking so close to them had done great and 
considerable prejudice both to the Beauty and Fertility of the Tree\ 
And this is as plainly saidy and as often inculcated as if one should 
write round about a SignCy This is a Dogy this is a Dogj out of 
over^much caution lest some might happen to mistake it for a Lyon^ 
Therefore when this Calumny could not hold {for the case is cleer^ 
and will take no colour) Some others sought out a subtiler bint to 
traduce me upon the same scorcy and were angry that the person 
whom I made a true Gentlemany and one both of considerable 
S^ality and Sufferings in the Royal partyy should not have a fair 
and noble Character throughouty but should submit in his great 
extremities to wrong his Niece for his own Relief This is a refined 



ixceptioHy such as I little fortsaWy nor should with the dulness of my 
usual Charity y have found out against another man in twenty years. 
The truth is^ I did not intend the Character of a Hero, one of 
exemplary virtue^ and as Homer often terms such men^ UnblameabUy 
hut an ordinary jovial Gentleman^ commonly called a Good Fellow^ 
one not so conscientious as to sterve rather than do the least Injury^ 
and yet endowed with so much sense of Honour as to refuse when 
that necessity was removedy the gain of five thousand pounds which 
be might have taken from his Niece by the rigour of a Forfeiture ; 
And let the frankness of this latter generosity so expiate for the former 
frailty y as may make us not ashamed of his Company y for if his true 
Metal be but equal to his Allayy it will not indeed render him one 
of the Finest sorts of mm, but it will make him Currenty for ought 
I knoWy in any party that ever yet was in the World. If you be 
to choose parts fir a Comedy out of any noble or elevated rank of 
personsy the most proper for that work are the worst of that kind. 
Comedy is humble of her Naturcy and has alwayes been bred loWy so 
that she knows not how to behave her self with the great or the 
accomplisht. She does not pretend to the brisk and bold ^alities of 
Winey but to the Stomachal Acidity of Finegary and ther^ore is best 
placed among that sort of people which the Romans call The Lees of 
Romulus. If I had designed here the celebration of the f^irtues of 
our Friendsy I would have made the Scene nobler where I intended 
to ere& their Statues. They should have stood in OdeSy and TragedieSy 
and Epique Poemsy (neither have I totally omitted those greater 
testimonies rfmy esteem of them) Sed nunc non erat his Locus, ^c. 
And so much for this little spiny objeSfion which a man cannot see 
without a Magnifying Glass. The next is enough to knock a man 
dowHj and accuses me of no less than Prophaness. Prophancy to 
deride the Hypocrisie of those men whose skuls are not yet bare upon 
the Gates since the pullique and just punishment of it? But there 
is some imitation of Scripture Phrases 'y God forbid \ There is no 
representation of the true face of Scripturcy but only of that f^izard 
which these Hypocrites (that iV, by interpretation A£fors with a 
Fixari) draw upon it. Is it Prophane to speak of Harrison's 
return to Life againy when some of his friends really prof est their 
belief of itj and he himself had been said to promise it? A man 
may be so imprudently scrupulous as to find prophaness in any thing 
eitper said or written by applying it under some similitude or other 
to some expressions in Scripture. This nicety is both vain and endless. 



But I call God to witmssy that rather than one tittU should remain 
among all my writings which according to my severest judgment 
should be found guilty of the crime objeSiedy I would mysi^bum and 
extinguish them all together. Nothing is so detestably lewd and 
rechless as the derision of things sacredy and would be in me more 
unpardonable than any man else^ who have endeavoured to root out 
the ordinary weeds of Poetry^ and to plant it almost wholly with 
Divinity, I am so far from allowing any loose or irreverent 
expressions in matters of that Religion which I believe^ that I am 
very tender in this point even for the grossest errors of Conscientious 
persons. They are the properest obje£f {me thinks) both of our Pitty 
and Charity too; They are the innocent and white SeSiarteSy in 
comparison of another kind who engraft Pride upon Ignorancey 
Tyranny upon Liberty^ and upon all their Heresies^ Treason and 
Rebellion, These are Principles so destructive to the Peace and 
Society of Mankind that they deserve to be persued by our serious 
Hatredj and the putting a Mask of San£fity upon such Devils is so 
Ridiculousy that it ought to be exposed to contempt and laughter. 
They are indeed ProphanCy who counterfeit the softness of the voyce 
of Moliness to disguize the roughness of the hands of Impiety^ and 
not they who with reverence to the thing which the others dissembUy 
deride nothing but their Dissimulation, If some piece of an admirable 
Artist should e ill Copyed even to ridiculousness by an ignorant handy 
and another Painter should undertake to draw that Copyy and make 
it yet more ridiculousy to shew apparently the difference of the two 
worksy and deformity of the lattery will not every man see plainly 
that the abuse is intended to the foolish ImitatioUy and not to the 
Excellent Original? I might say much more to confute andcotifrund 
this very false and malitious accusationy but this is enough I hope to 
deer the mattery and is I am afraid too much for a Preface to a 
work of so little consideration. As for all other objections which 
have been or may be made against the Invention or ElocutioHy or any 
thing else which comes under the Critical JurisdiSliony let it stand 
or fall as it can answer for it self for I do not lay the great stress 
of my Reputation upon a Structure of this Naturcy much less upon 
the slight Reparations only of an Old and unfashionable Building. 
There is no Writer but may fail sometimes in point of Wity and it 
is no less frequent for the Auditors to fail in point of Judgment. 
I perceive plainly by dayly experience that Fortune is Afistris of the 
Theatrcy as Tuily sayes it is of all popular Assemblies. No man 



can tell sometimes from whence the Invisible winds arise that move 
them. There are a multitude of people who are truly and onelj 
Spe&ators at a plajy without any use of their Understanding^ ami 
these carry it sometimes by the strength of their Number. There 
are others who use their Understanding too much^ who think it a 
sign of weakness or stupidity to let anything pass by them unattaquedy 
and that the Honour of their Judgment (as some Brutals imagine 
of their Courage) consists in barrelling with every thing. We are 
therefore wonderfull wise men^ and have a fine business of ity we 
who spend our time in Poetry^ I do sometimes laughy and am often . 
angry with my self when I think on ity and if I had a Son inclined 
by Nature to the same fiflfyy I believe I should bind him from ity by 
the stri£2est conjurations of a paternal Blessing. For what can be 
mure ridiculous than to labour to give men delighty whilst they labour 
on their part more earnestly to take offence? to expose one^s self 
voluntarily and frankly to all the dangers of that narrow passage 
to unprofitable ramcy which is defended by rude multitudes of the 
Ignoranty and by armed Troops of the Malitious ? If we do ill 
many discover it and all despise usy if we do well but few men find 
it outy and fewer entertain it kindly. If we commit errors there is 
no pardony if we could do wonders there would be but little thanksy 
and that too extorted from unwilling Givers. But some perhaps 
may sayy fVas it not ahvayes thus ? Do you expert a particular 
privilege that was never yet enjoyed by any Poet? were the ancient 
Graecian, or noble Roman AuthorSy was Virgil himself exempt 
from this Passibilityy Qui melior multis quam tu fiiit, Improbe, 
rebus, Who was in many things thy better fary Thou impudent 
Pretender? As was said by Lucretius to a person who took it ill 
that he was to Dycy though he had seen so many do it before him who 
better deserved Immortality \ and this is to repine at the natural 
condition of a Living Poety as he did at that of a Living Mortal. 
I do not only acknowledge the Pra-^minence of Virgil (whose Foot^ 
steps I adore) but submit to many of his Roman Brethreny and 
I confess that even they in their own times were not secure from the 
assaults of Detra^ion {though Horace brags at lasty Jam dente 
minus mordeor invido) but then the Barkings of a few were 
drowned in the Applause of all the rest of the IVorldy and the 
Poison of their Bi tings extinguish by the Antidote of great rewardsy 
and great encouragementSy which is a way of curing now out of usOy 
and I really prtfess that I neither expe£fy nor think I deserve it. 



Indolency would serve my turn instead of Pleasure \ for though 
I comfort my self with some assurance of the favour and affe&ion 
of very many candid and good natured {and yet too judicious and 
even Critical) personsy yet this I do affirm^ that from all which 
I have written I never received the least benefit^ or the least 
advantage^ but on the contrary have felt sometimes the effe&s of 
Malice and Misfortune. 

T'he Prologue. 

As when the Midland Sea is no where clear 
From dreadfuU Fleets of Tunis and Argier^ 
Which coast about, to all they meet with Foes, 
And upon which nought caii be got but Blowes, 
The Merchand Ships so much their passage doubt, 
That, though full-freighted, none dares venture out. 
And Trade decayes, and Scarcity ensues; 
Just so the timerous Wits of late refuse, 
Though laded, to put forth upon the Stage, 
Affrighted by the Critiques of this age. 
It is a Party numerous, watchfiill, bold; 
They can from nought, which sailes in sight, witb-hold. 
Nor doe their cheap, though mortal. Thunder spare; 
They shoot, alas, with Wind-gunns, charg'd with Air. 
But yet. Gentlemen Critiques of Argier^ 
For your own int'rest I'de advise ye here 
To let this little Forlorn Hope goe by 
Safe and untoucht; That must not be (you'l cry) 
If ye be wise, it must ; He tell yee why. 
There are Seven, Eight, Nine, . . . stay . . . there are behind 
Ten Playes at least, which wait but for a Wind, 
And the glad News that we the Enemy miss; 
And those are all your own, if you spare This. 
Some are but new trim'd up, others quite New, 
Some by known Shipwrights built, and others too 
By that great Author made, whoere he be, 
That stiles himself Person of Qualitie. 



All these, if we miscarry here to-day, 

Will rather till they Rot in th' Harbour stay, 

Nay they will back again, though they were come, 

Ev*n to their last safe Rode, the Tyring room. 

Therefore again I say, if you be wise. 

Let this for once pass free; let it sufSse 

That we your Soverai[gn] power here to avow. 

Thus humbly ere we pass, strike sail to You. 

Added at Court. 

STay Gentlemen; what I have said, was all 
But forcM submission, which I now recall. 
Ye*re all but Pirats now again; for here 
Does the true Soveraign of the Seas appear. 
The Soveraign of these Narrow Seas of wit ; 
*Tis his own Thames -^ He knows and Governs it. 
*Tis his Dominion, and Domain ; as Hee 
Pleases, *tis either Shut to us or Free. 
Not onely, if his Pasport we obtain. 
We fear no little Rovers of the Main, 
But if our Neptune his calm visage show, 
No Wave shall dare to Rise or Wind to Blow. 


The Persons. 

Colonel Jolly 

Mistris Aurelia 
Mistris Lucia 




Mr. Puny 

Mr. Truman Senior 
Mr. Truman Junior 

Mistris Barebottle 

Mistris Tabitha 

Mistris Jane 

Mr. Soaker 
Several Servants. 

A Gentleman whose Estate was con- 
fiscated in the late troubles. 

His Daughter, 

His Niecej left to his Tuition. 

A merry sharking fellow ahout the 
Townj pretending to have been a 
Colonel in the Kings Army. 

His Companion^ and such another 
ftlloWy pretending to have been a 

A youngs richy brisk FoPy pretending t§ 
extraordinary wity Suter to Mistris 

An oldy testyy Covetous Gentleman. 

His Sony in love with Mistris Lucia, 

A Sopeboyler*s widdoWy who had bought 
Jolly's EstatCy A pretended Saint, 

Her Daughter. 

Mistris Lucias Maidy a little laugh- 
ing Fop. 

A little Fudling Deacon. 







A6k I. Scene i. 

Truman yunior. 

HOW hard, alas, is that young Lover's fate, 
Who has a &ther Covetous and Cholerique ! 
What has he made me swear ? — 

I dare not think upon the Oath, lest I should keep it — 
Never to see my Mistris more, or hear her speak 
Without his leave; And forewel then the use 
Of Eyes and Ears ; — 
And all this Wickedness I submitted to, 
For fear of being Disinherited ; 
For fear of losing Durt and Dross, I lose 
My Mistris — There's a Lover ! Fitter much 
For Hell than thousand perjuries could make him ; 
Fit to be made th* Example which all Women 
Should reproach Men with, when themselves grow false; 
Yet she, the good and charitable Lucia^ 
With such a bounty as has onely been 
PraftisM by Heaven, and Kings inspired from thence. 
Forgives still, and still loves her perjur'd Rebel. 
I 'le to my &ther strait, and swear to him 
Ten thousand Oathes ne'r to observe that wicked one 
Which he' has extorted from me — 'Here he comes; 
And my weak heart, already us'd to falshood. 
Begins to waver. 



Scene 2. 

Truman Senior^ Truman Junior. 

Trum. Sen. Well, Dicky you know what jrou swore to me 
yesterday, And solemnly. 

I ha' been considering, and considering all Night, Dict^ for 
your good, and me-thinl^ supposing I were a youne man again, 
and the case my own (for I love to be just in all things) me- 
thinks 'tis hard for a young man, I say, who has been a Lover 
so long as you ha' been, to break off on a suddain. Am I in 
the right or no, Diet? Do you mark me ? 

Trum. Jun. Hard, Sir, 'tis harder much than any death 
Prolong'd by Tortures. 

Trum. Sen. Why so I thought ; and therefore out o* my 
care for your ease, I have hit upon an Expedient that I think 
will salve the matter ! 

Trum. Jun. And I will thank you for it more, Sir, 
Than for the life you gave me. 

Trum. sen. Why ! well said, Dici^ and I 'me glad with 
all my 
Heart, I thought upon't; in brief, 'tis this, Did; 
I ha' found out another Mistris for you. 

Trum. jun. Another ? Heaven forbid. Sir ! 

Trum. sen. I ; Another, Good-man Jack Sawce ; marry 
come up; 
Won't one o' my choosing serve your turn, as well 
As one o' your own; sure I 'me the older man. 
Jack Sawce, and should be the Wiser! 

Trum. Jun. But Nature, Sir, that's wiser than all Mankind, 
Is Mistris in the choice of our a(Fe£tions; 
AfieAions are not rais'd from outward Reasons, 
But inward Sympathies. 

Trum. sen. Very well, Dick, if you be a dutiful son to me, 
you shall have a good Estate, and so has she ; 
There's Sympathy for you now; but I perceive 
You 'r hankring still after Mrs. Lucy^ 

Do, do! forswear your self; do, damn your self, and be a 
beggar too; sure I would never undo my self, by perjury; if I 



had a mind to go to hell, Cromwel should make me a Lord 
for 't ! I, and one of his Councel too, I 'de never be damn'd for 
nothing, for a Whim-wham in a Coif. But to be short, The 
person I design for you is Mrs. Tabith[a Ba]rebottleyO\xx neighbour 
the Widow's daughter. What do you start at, Sirra ? I, Sirra, 
Jack-an-apes, if you start when your father speaks to you. 

Trum. jun. You did not think her father once I 'me sure 
A person fit for your Alliance, when he plundred your House 
in Hartfordshirey and took away the very Hop-poles, pretending 
they were Arms too. 

TVwfi. sen. He was a very Rogue, that 's the Truth on 't, 
as to the business between man and man, but as to God-ward 
he was always counted an Upright man, and very devout. But 
that 's all one, I 'me sure h 'as rais'd a fine Estate out o' nothing 
by his Industry in these Times : An' I had not been a Beast 
too-^but Heaven's will be done, I could not ha' don't with 
a good conscience. Well, Dicky I 'le go talk with her mother 
about this matter, and examine fully what her Estate is, for 
unless it prove a good one, I tell you true, Dicky I 'me o' your 
Opinion, not to marry such a Rogues daughter. 

Trum.JuH. I beseech you. Sir — Exit Trum. sen. 

It is in vain -to speak to him — 
Though I to save this Dung-hill an Estate 
Have done a Crime like theirs. 
Who have abjur'd their King for the same cause, 
I will not yet, like them, persue the guilt. 
And in thy place, Lucia my lawful Soverain, 
Set up a low and scandalous Usurper ! Enter Servant, 

Serv. 'Tis well the old man 's just gone. There 's a 
Gentlewoman without. Sir, desires to speaJc one word with 

Trum.jun. With me? who is't? 

Serv. It should be Mrs. Lucia by her voice, Sir, but she 's 
vcil'd all over. Will you please to see her. Sir ? 

Trum. Will I see her. Blockhead ? yes ; go out and kneel 
to her 
And pray her to come in. {Exit Serv.) 



Scene 3. 

Liuia {viil'd), T'ruman, 

Trum. This is a favour, Madain I 
That I as little hop'd, as I am able 
To thank you for it — But why all this muffling? 
Why a disguise, my Dearest, between us ? 
Unless to increase, my desire first, and then my joy to see thee 
Thou cast this subtil night before thy beauty. 
And now like one scorch'd with some raging Feaver, 
Upon whose flames no dew of sleep has lain, 
I do begin to quarrel with the Darkness, 
And blame the sloathful rising of the Morn, 
And with more joy shall welcome it, than they 
Whose Icy dwellings the cold Bear o're-looks, 
When after half the years Winter and Night, 
Day and the Spring at once salutes their sight 1 
Thus it appears, thus like thy matchless beauty. 
When this black Clowd is vanish'd, 

[tferi ta pull tftht Val, 
Why d 'c you shrink back, my Dearest ? 
I prcthee let me look a little on thee: 
'Tis all the pleasure Love has yet allow'd me, 
And more than Nature does in all things else. 
At least speak to me \ well may I call it Night 
When Silence too thus joyns it self with Darkness. 
Ha! I had quite forgot the cursed Oath I made — 
Pish ! what 's an Oath forc'd from a Lover's Tongue \ 
'TIS not recorded in Heaven's dreadful book. 
But Bcatter'd loosely by the breath that made it: 
Away with it; to make it was but a Rashness, 
To keep it were a Sin— Dear Madam — 

Offirt agtn^ but the rtjuses, and pvn him a N»U. 
Ha I let 's see this then first I 

IHt rtadt. 
You know I have forgiven your unkind Oath to your 
Father, and shall never su£fer you to be pcrjur'd. 


I come onely to let you know, that the Physician and the 

'Pothecary will do this morning what we proposed; be ready 

at hand, if there should be occasion for your presence ; I dare 

not stay one minute. Farewel. 

Now thousand Angels wait upon thee, Luciay 

And thousand Blessings upon all thou do'st. 

Let me but kiss your hand, And I*le dismiss you. 

Ah cruel father, when thou mad'st the Oath, 

Thou little thought*st that thou had'st left 

Such blessings for me out of it. [Exeunt. 

Scene 4. 

Colonel Jolly, fVill {his Man.) 

Joll. Give me the Pills; what said the Doftor, H^ill? 

[Col. Jolly in an Indian Gown and Night-^ap. 

fVill. He said a great deal, Sir, but I was not Do£lor 
enough to understand half of it. 

Joll. A man may drink, he says, for all these Bawbles? 

ff^ili. He's ill advised if he give your Worship drinking 
Pills, for when you were drinking last together, a Fit took you 
to beat the Dodtor, which your Worship told him was a new 

Joll. He was drunk then himself first, and spoke False 
Latin, which becomes a Dodlor worse than a beating. But he 
does not remember that, I hope, now ? 

ff^ill. I think he does. Sir, for he says the Pills 
Are to puree Black Choler! 

JoU. I, Melancholy ; I shall ha' need of them then, for my 
old Purger of Melancholy, Canary, will grow too dear for me 
shortly; my own Estate was sold for being with the King at 
Oxfird. A Curse upon an old Dunce that needs must be 
gomg to Oxford at my years ! My good Neighbor, I thank 
him, Collonel Fear-the-Lord^BarebottU, a Saint and a Sope- 
boyler, bought it ; but he 's dead, and boiling now himself, 
that 's the best of 't ; There 's a Cavalier's comfort ! If his 
damnable Wife now would marry me, it would return again, as 

c. II. s %17^ 


I hope all things will at last ; and even that too were as hard a 
Composition for ones own, as ever was made at HabberdasherS' 
Hall\ but hang her, she '1 ha* none o' me, unless I were True 
Rich and Counterfeit Godly ; let her go to her husband ; \taka 
a Pill,'] (so much for that — It does not go down so glib as an 
Egg in Muskadine) Now when my Nieces Portion too goes 
out o* my hands, which I can keep but till a handsome Wench 
of eighteen pleases to marry (a pitiful slender Tenure that 's the 
truth on't) I ha' nothing to do but to live by Plots for the 
King, or at least to be hang'd by 'em. [takes the two other 
Pills.] (So, go thou too) well, something must be done, unless 
a man could get true Gems by drinking, or like a Mouse in a 
Cheese, make himself a house by eating. 

ff^illy did you send for Colonel Cutter and Captain JVorm^ to 
come and keep me company this morning that I take Pbysick? 
They'l be loth to come to day, there 's so little hope o* drinking 

ff^ill. They said they would be here. Sir, before this time; 
Some Morning's draught, I believe, has intercepted 'em. 

yolL I could Repent now heartily, but that 'twould look as 
if I were compell'd to 't, and besides if it should draw me to 
Amendment, 'twould undo me now, till I ha' gotten something. 
'Tis a hard case to wrong my pretty Niece ; but unless I get 
this wicked Widow, I and my daughter must starve else ; and 
that 's harder yet ; Necessity is, as I take it. Fatality, and that 
will excuse all things, O ! Here they are ! 

Scene 5. 

Colonel yolly^ Colonel Cutter^ Captain IVorm. 

J oil. Welcome! Men o' war, what news abroad in Town? 

Cut, Brave news I faith ! it arriv'd but yesterday by an 
Irish Priest, that came over in the habit of a Fish-wifc ; a 
cunning fellow, and a man o' business ; he 's to lie Leiger here 
for a whole Irish College beyond-Sea, and do all their Afiairs of 
State. The Captain spoke with him last night at the Blew 

Joll. Well, and what is 't ? 


Worm. Why, Business is afloat again ; the King has 
mxister'd five and twenty thousand men in Flanders^ as tall 
Fellows as any are in Christendom. 

ydL A pox upon you for a couple of gross Cheats! 
I wonder from what fools in what blind comers you get a 
dinner for this stuflF. 

Cut. Nay, there *s another News that 's stranger ye[t] ; but 
for that let the Captain Answer. 

ff^or. I confess I should ha' thought it very ridiculous, but 
that I saw it from a good hand beyond Sea, under Black and 
White, and all in Cypher. 

%//. Oh it cann't miss then ; what may it be, pray ? 

ff^or. Why, that the Emperor of Muscovy has promised 
To land ten thousand Bears in England to 
Over-run the Country. 

JolL Oh ! that *s in revenge of the late barbarous Murder 
of their brethren here I warrant you ! 

Cut Why, Colonel, things will come about again ! 
We shall have another 'bout for 't ! 

ydiL Why all this to a friend that knows you ? where were 
thy former Bouts, I prethee Cutter? where didst thou ever 
serve the King, or when? 

Cut. Why every where; and the last time at ff^orcester. 
If I never serv'd him since, the faults not mine; an there 
had been any Action — 

yoU. At tVorcester^ Cutter? prethee how got's thou thither? 

Cut. Why as you and all other Gentlemen should ha' 
done ; I carri d him in a Troop of Reformado Oflicers ; most 
of them had been under my command before ! 

JolL I *le be sworn they were Reformado Tapsters then ; 
but prethee how gots thou off? 

Cut. Why as the King himself, and all the rest of the great 
ones ; in a disguise, if you '1 needs know 't. 

fVor. He 's very cautious. Colonel, h 'as kept it ever since. 

Joll. That's too long'ifaith. Cutter^ prethee take one 
disguise now more at last, and put thy self into the habit of a 

Cut. I 'le answer no more Prethees ; Is this the Mornings- 
draught you sent for me to ? 

Joll. No, I ha' better news for ye both, than ever ye had 

S2 a*^^ 


from a eood Irish hand ; the truth is I have a Plot for yee, 
which if it take, ye Shall no more make monstrous Tales from 
Bruges to revive your sinking Credits in Loyal Ale-houses, nor 
inveiele into Taverns young Foremen of the Shop, or little 
beardless Blades of the Inns of Court, to drink to the Royal 
Family Parabolically, and with bouncine Oathes like Cannon 
at every Health ; nor upon unlucky railing afternoons take 
melancholy turns in the Temple Walks, and when you meet 
acquaintance, cry. You wonder why your Lawyer stays so long 
with a pox to him. 

ff^or. This Physick has stirr'd ill humors in the Colonel, 
would they were once well purg'd, and we a Drinking again 
lovingly together as we were wont to do. 

yoil. Nor make headless quarrels about the Reckoning 
time, and leave the house in confusion ; nor when you go to 
bed produce ten several snuflfs to make up one poor Pipe o* 
Tobacco ! 

Cut. Would I had one here now; I ha' n't had my 
morning Smoak yet, by this day ! 

yoil. Nor change your names and lodgings as often as a 
Whore : for as yet if ye liv'd like Tartars in a Cart (as I fear 
ye must die in one) your home could not be more uncertain. 
To day at fVapping^ and to morrow you appear anin upon 
Mill-bank (like a Duck that Dives at this end of the rond, and 
rises unexpedledly at the other) I do not think Pytbagnrai his 
Soul e're changM so many dwellings as you ha' done within 
these two years. 

Cut. Why, what then, Colonel ? Soldiers must remove 
their Tents sometimes, Alexander the Great did it a thousand 

Worm. Nine hundred. Cutter^ you 'r but a Dunce in Story ; 
But what's all this to th' matter, Noble Colonel? 
You run a Wool-gathering like a zealous Teacher ; 
Where 's the use of Consolation that you promis'd us f 

Joll. Why thou shalt have it, little Worm^ for these 
Damn'd Pills begin to make me horrible sick, and are not like 
to allow of long Digressions ; Thus briefly then, as befits a 
man in my case ! 

When my brother the Merchant went into Afrupu^ to follow 
his great Trade there — 



JVor. How o' Devil could he follow it ? why he had quite 
lost his memory ; I knew him when he was fain to carry his 
own Name in Writing about him for fear lest he should 
forget it. 

jM. Oh his man J^hn^ you know, did all, yet still he 
would go about with old 'Johriy and thought if he did Go, he 
did his business himself; well, when he went he left his 
Daughter with a Portion o' five thousand pounds to my 
Xuition, and if she married without my consent, she was to 
have but a thousand of it. When he was gon two years he 

Wor. He did a little forget himself me-thinks, when he left 
the Estate in your hands, Collonel. 

JdL Hold your tongue. Captain Coxcomb ; now the case 
is this ; ye shall give me a thousand pounds for my interest and 
favour in this business, settle the rest upon her, and her 
children, or me and mine, if she ha' none (d 'ee mark me ? for 
I will not have one penny of the Principal pass through such 
glewy Fingers) upon these terms I *le marry her to one of you ; 
Alwajrs provided though, that he whom she shall choose (for 
she shall have as fair a choice as can be between two such 
fellows) shall give me good assurances of living afterwards like 
a Gentleman, as befits her husband, and cast o£F the t' others 
company ! 

Cut, The Conditions may be admitted of, though if I have 
her, she '1 ha' no ill bargain on 't when the King comes home ; 
but how, Colonel, if she should prove a foolish fantastical 
Wench, and refuse to marry cither of us ? 

*JolL Why ! then she shall never ha' my consent to marry 
any body; and she'l be hang'd, I think, first in the Friars 
Rope, ere she turn Nun. 

Wor. I '1 be a Carthusian an she do ! 

'JoU. If't were not for Chastity and Obedience thou 
mightest be so ; their t' other Vow of never carrying any mony 
about them, thou hast kept from thy youth upwards. 

IV^r. lie have her; I 'me the better Scholar; and we're 
both equal Soldiers, I' me sure. 

Cut. Thou, Captain Bobadil? what with that Ember- week 
fiice o' thine ? that Rasor o' thy Nose ? thou look'st as if thou 
hadst never been fed since thou suck'st thy mother's milk. 



Thy cheeks begin to fsil into thy mouth, that thou mightest 
eat them. Why thou very Lath, with a thing cut h'ke a face 
at Top, and a slit at bottom. I am a man ha* serv'd my King 
and Country, a person of Honor, Dogbolt, and a Colonel. 

ff^or. I es, as Priests are made now a daies, a Colonel made 
by thine own-self. I must confess thus much o' thy good 
parts, thou *rt beholding to no body but thy self for what thou 
art. Thou a Soldier? Did not I see thee once in a quarrel at 
Nine-pins behind Sodom-hnc disarm'd with one o' the pins? 
Alas, good Cutter! there's difference, as I take it, betwixt the 
clattering o' Swords and Quart-pots, the effusion of Blood and 
Claret-wine — 

Cut. (What a Barking little Curr 's this?) 

ff^or. The smoak o' Guns and Tobacco — nor can you, 
Cuttevy fight the better, because you ha' beat an old Bawd or a 
Drawer ; besides, what parts hast thou ? Hast thou Scholar- 
ship enough to make a Brewers Clark? Canst thou read the 
Bible ? I 'me sure thou hast not ; canst thou write more than 
thine own name, and that in such vile Characters, that most 
men take 'em for Arabian Pot-hooks ! Dost thou not live. 
Cutter^ in the Chyma;rian darkness of Ignorance ? 

JolL Cymmerian, Captain, prethee let it be Cymmerian ! 

kVor, I \ I know some will have it so ; but by this light I 
always call 't Chyniaerian ! 

Cut. O brave Scholar ! has the Colonel caught you in fidse 
Latin, you dunce you ? you 'd e'en as good stick to your 
Captainship \ and that you may thank me for, you ingrateful 
Pimp you, was not I the first that ever call'd you so ? and said 
you had serv'd stoutly in my Regiment at Newberry? 

JolL Thy Regiment ? — well ! leave your quarrelling. Ba- 
boons, and try your fortunes fairly ; I begin to be very very 
sick ; I 'le leave you, and send in my Niece to intertain you, 
upon my life, if you quarrel any more, As great Soldiers as you 
are, I 'le ha' you Cashier'd for ever out o' this Garrison o* mine, 
look to 't. Exit Col. Joll. 

IVor. Come Cutter^ wee 'd e'en better play fair play with 
one another, than lose all to a third. Let 's draw Cuts who 
shall accost her first when she comes in, and the t' other void 
the room for a little while. 

Cutt. Agreed ! you may thank the Colonel for comming off 



SO easily ; you know well enough I dare not offend him at such 
a time as this ! 

fyor. The longest first — {Draw Lots. 

Cut. Mine ! Od 's my life ! here she is already ! 

Scene 6. 

Lucidj Cuttery fVorm, 

Luc. (7i her self at her Entrance,) 
Not choose amiss? indeed I must do, Uncle, 
If I should choose again ; especially, 
If I should do 't out of your drinking Company ; 
Though I have seen these fellows here, I think 
A hundred times, yet I so much despise 'em, 
I never askt their names: But I must speak to 'em now. 
My Uncle, Gentlemen, will wait upon you presently again, 
and sent me hither to desire your patience ! 

Cut. Patience, Madam, will be no virtue requisite for us, 
whilst you are pleas'd to stay here; Ha, ha ! Cutter! that lit 
pretty pat 'ifaith for a beginning. (JVorm goes out. 

Luc. Is your friend going, Sir? 

Cut. Friend, Madam ? — (I hope I shall be even with him 
presently) he 's a merry fellow that your Uncle and I divert 
our selves withall. 

Luc. What is he? pray Sir. 

Cut. That 's something difficult to tell you. Madam ; 

But he has been all things. He was a Scholar once, and 
since a Merchant, but broke the first half year ; after that 
he serv'd a Justice o' Peace, and from thence turn'd a kind o' 
SoUicitor at GoUsmiths-ha/I ; h' as a pretty Smattering too in 
Poetry, and would ha' been my Lady Protectress's Poet ; He 
writ once a Copy in praise of her Beauty, but her Highness 
gave him for it but an old Half-crown piece in Gold, which 
she had hoorded up before these troubles, and that discourag'd 
him from any further Applications to the Court. Since that, 
h 'as been a little Agitator for the Cavalier party, and drew in 
one of the 'Prentices that were hang'd lately ; He 's a good 
ingenious fellow, that 's the truth on 't, and a pleasant Droll 
when h 'as got a cup o' Wine in his pate, which your Uncle 



and I supply him with ; but for matters that concern the King 
neither of us trust him. Not that I can say h 'as betraid any 
body, but he *s so indigent a Varlet, that I *m afraid he would 
sell his Soul to Oliver for a Noble. But Madam, what a pox 
should we talk any more o' that Mole-catcher? (Now I'm 
out again — I am so us'd onely to ranting Whores, that an 
honest Gentlewoman puts me to a Non-plus !) 

Luc. Why, my Uncle recommended him to me. Sir, as a 
Person of Quality, and of the same Condition with your self, 
onely that you had been a Collonel o' Foot, and he a Captain 
of Horse in his Majesty's Service. 

Cut. You know your Uncle's Drolling hvunor, Msulam; he 
thought there was no danger in the Raillerie, and that you 'd 
quickly find out what he was ; Here he comes again {Enter 
tVorm.) I 'le leave him with you. Madam, for a Minute, and 
wait upon you immediately, (I am at a loss, and must recover 
my self) Captain, I ha' dealt better by you than you deserv'd, 
and given you a high Character to her ; see you do me right 
too, if there be occasion — I '1 make bold though to hearken 
whether you do or no. {Exit Cutter, and stands at the d$re. 

Wor. Madam, my Noble friend your Uncle has been pleas'd 
to honor me so far with his good Opinion, as to allow me the 
liberty to kiss your hands. 

Luc. You r welcome. Sir, but pray. Sir, give me leave 
Before you enter into farther Complement 
To ask one question of you. 

IVor. I shall resolve you. Madam, with that truth 
Which may, I hope, invite you to believe me 
In what I me to say afterwards. 

Luc. 'Tis to tell me your friends Name, Sir, and his 
Quality, which, though I have seen him oft, I am yet ignorant 
of: I suppose him to be some honorable person, who has 
eminently serv'd the King in the late Wars. 

Cut, {at the door) 'Tis a shrewd discerning Wench, she 
has hit me right already ! 

fVor. They call him Collonel Cutter^ but to deal fiiithfully 
with you. Madam, he 's no more a Colonel than you 'r a Major 

Cut. Ha ! sure I mistake the Rogue ! 

fVor. He never serv'd his King, not he, no more than he 



does his Maker ; Tis true, h 'as drunk his Health as often 
as any man, upon other men's charges, and he was for a little 
while, I think, a kind of He£lor, 'till he was soimdly beaten 
one day, and dragg'd about the room, like old HeSfor o' Troy 
about the Town. 

Cut. What does this Dog mean, trow ? 

JVor. Once indeed he was very low for almost a twelve- 
month, and had neither mony enough to hire a Barber, nor 
buy Sizars, and then he wore a Beard (he said) for King Charts ; 
he's now in pretty good cloathes, but would you saw the 
furniture of his Chamber ! marry half a Chair, an Earthen 
Chamberpot without an Ear, and the bottom of an Ink-horn 
for a Candle-stick, the rest is broken foul Tobacco-pipes, and a 
dozen o' Gally-pots with Sawse in 'em. 

Cut Was there ever such a cursed Villain ! 

ff^w. H'as been a known Cheat about the Town these 
twenty years. 

Ltic. What does my Uncle mean to keep him company, if 
he be such a one ? 

ff^or. Why he's in&tuated ! I think, I ha' wam'd him 
on't a thousand times ; he has some wit (to give the devil his 
due) and that 'tis makes us endure him, but however I'd advise 
your Uncle to be a little more cautious how he talks before him 
o* State matters, for he's shrewdly wrong'd if he be n't Crom- 
%uef% Agent for all the Taverns between Kings-street and the 
Devil at Tempie^har^ indeed he's a kind o' Resident in 'em. 

Cut. Flesh and blood can bear no longer — JVorniy you'r a 
stinkine, lying, perjur'd, damn'd Villain; and if I do not bring 
you. Madam, his Nose and both his Ears, and lay 'em at your 
feet here before night, may the Pillory and the Pox take mine ; 
till then, suspend your judgment. Exit Cutter. 

Luc. Nay, you'r both even; just such an excellent 
Character did he bestow on you ; Why, thou vile Wretch, 
Go to the Stews, the Gaol, and there make love, 
Thou'lt find none there but such as will scorn thee! 

War. Whv here's brave work i'feith ! I ha' carri'd it 
swimmingly, I'le e'en go steal away and drink a dozen before I 
venture to think one thought o' the business. Exit. 

Luc. Go cursed race, which stick your loathsome crimes 
Upon the Honorable Cause and Party; 



And to the Noble Loyal Su^rers, 

A worser sufiering add of Hate and Infamy. 

Go to the Robbers and the Parricides, 

And fix your Spots upon their Painted Vizards, 

Not on the native face of Innocence. 

Tis you retard that Industry by which 

Our Country would recover from this sickness j 

Which, whilst it fears th' eruption of such Ulcers, 

Keeps a Disease tormenting it within, 

But if Icind Heav'n please to restore our Health, 

When once the great Physician shall return, 

He quickly will I hope restore our Beauty. 

A& 2. Scene i. 


I See 'tis no small part of policy 
To keep some little Spies in an Enemies quarters : 
The Parliament had reason— 

I would not for five hundred pounds but ha' corrupted Diy 
Cousin Lucia's Maid; and yet it costs me nothing but Sack- 
possets, and Wine, and Sugar when her Mistris is a bed, and 
tawd'ry Ribbonds, or fine Trimm'd Gloves sometimes, and 
once I think a pair of Counterfeit Ruble Pendants 
That cost me half a Crown. The poor Wench loves 
Dy'd Glass like any Indian ; for a Diamond Bob I'd have her 
Ma[i]denhead if I were a Man and she a Maid. If her Mistris 
did but talk in her sleep sometimes, o' my conscience she'd sit 
up all night and watch her, onely to tell me in the morning 
what she said ; 'Tis the prettiest diligent Wretch in her 
Calling, now she has undertaken't. 
Her intelligence just now was very good, and 
May be o' consequence ; That young Truman is 
Stoln up the back way into my Cousin's Chamber. 
These are your grave Maids that study Romances, and will be 
all Mandanas and Cauandrat, and never spit but by the Rules 
of Honor ; Oh, here she comes, I hope, with fresh intelligence 
from the Foe's Rendevouz. 


Scene 2. 

Aurelioj Jane. 

yane. Ha, ha, ha ! for the love of goodness hold me, or I 
shall &11 down with laughing, ha, ha, ha ! 'Tis the best humor 
— no — I can't tell it you for laughing — ha, ha, ha ! the prettiest 
sport, ha, ha, ha ! 

jfur. Why, thou hast not seen him lie with her, hast thou ? 
The Wench is mad; prethee what is't? 

yane. Why (hee, hei, ha !) My Mistris sits by her Servant 
in a long Veil that covers her from Top to Toe, and says not 
one word to him, because of the Oath you know that the old 
man forc'd his son to take after your Father had forbid him the 
house, and he talks half an hour, like an Ass as he is, all alone, 
and looks upon her hand all the while, and kisses it. But that 
which makes me die with laughing at the conceit (ha, ha, ha !) 
is, that when he asks her anything, she goes to the Table, and 
writes her answer; you never saw such an innocent Puppet- 
play ! 

Aur, Dear yane (kiss me, yane^ how shall I do to see 

yan. Why, Madam, I'l go look the key of my Mistris 
Closet above, that looks into her Chamber, where you may see 
all, and not be seen. 

Aur. Why that's as good as the trick o' the Veil ; do, dear 
Jane^ quickly, 'twill make us excellent sport at night, and we'l 
mddle our Noses together, shall we, dear yane ? 

yane. I, dear Madam ! I'l go seek out the key. 

Exit yane. 

Aur. *Tis strange, if this trick o' my Cousins should beget 
no trick o' mine. That would be pittiful dul doings. 



Scene 3. 

Aurelia^ Mr. Puny. 

Aur. Here comes another of her Servants ; a jroiing rich, 
fantastical Fop, that would be a Wit, and has got a new waj 
of being so ; he scorns to speak any thing that's common, and 
finds out some impertinent similitude for every thing. The 
Devil I think can't find out one for him. This Coxcomb has 
so little Brains too, as to make me the Confident of his Amours, 
rie thank him for his Confidence ere I ha' done with him. 

Pun. Whose here ? O Madam ! is your father out of his 
Metaphorical Grave yet ? you understand my meaning, my 
dear Confident ? you'r a Wit ! 

Aur. Like what, Mr. Puny? 

Pun. Why — like — me ! 

Aur. That's right your way, Mr. Puny^ its an odd 

Pun. But where's your Father little Queen o' Diamonds? 
is he extant ? I long like a Woman big with Twins to speak 
with him ! 

Aur. You can't now possibly: There was never any 
Creature so sick with a disease as he is with Physick, to day, the 
Doctor and the 'Pothecarie's with him, and will let no body 
come in. But, Mr. Punyy I have words o' comfort for you ! 

Pun. What, my dear Queen o' Sheba! and I have Ophir 
for thee if thou hast. 

Aur. Why your Rival is forbid our house, and has sworn to 
his father never to see or hear your Mistris more. 

Pun. I knew that yesterday as well as I knew my Cmb^ 
but I 'm the very Jew of Malta if she did not use mc since 
that, worse than I 'de use a rotten Apple. 

Aur. Why that can 't be. Brother Wit, why that were 
uncivilly done of her ! 

Pun. O hang her. Queen of Fairies, (I'm all for Queens 
to day I think) she cares much for that ; No, that Assyrian 
Crocodile Truman is still swimming in her praecordiums, but 
I 'le so ferret him out ; I '1 beat him as a Bloomsbury Whore 



beats Hemp ; I '1 spoil his Grave Dominical Postures ; I '1 
make him sneak, and look like a door off the hinges. 

Aur, That 's hard ! but he deserves it truly, if he strive 
to Annihilate. 

Pun. Why well said. Sister Wit, now thou speak'st 
oddlv too ! 

jiur. Well, without wit or foolery, Mr. Punyy what will 
you give me, if this night, this very improbable night, I make 
you Marry my Cousin Lucia ? 

Pun. Thou talk'st like Medusa^s head, thou astonishest 

Aur. Well, in plain language as befits a Bargain ; there 's 
Pen and Inck in the next Chamber, give but a Bill under your 
hand to pay me five hundred pounds in Gold (upon forfeiture 
of a thousand if you tixX) within an hour after the business 
is done, and I M be bound Body for Body my Cousin Lucia 
shall be your Wife this night ; if I deceive you, your Bond will 
do you no hurt, if, I do not, consider a little before-hand, 
whether the Work deserves the Reward, and do as you think 

Pun. There shall be no more considering than in a Hasty 
Pudding ; I '1 write it an' you will, in Short-hand, to dispatch 
immediately, and presently go put five hundred Mari-golds in a 
purse for you. Come away like an Arrow out of a Scythian 

Aur. I '1 do your business for you, I '1 warrant you ; Allans 
Mmt-Cber. Exeunt. 

Scene 4. 

Cutter^ Worm. 

Cut. Now I ha* thee at the place, where thou afironted'st 
me, here will I cut thy throat. 

Wvr. You*l be hang'd first. 

Cut. No by this light. 

Wvr. You*I be hang'd after then. 

Cut. Not so neither ; for I '1 hew thee into so many 
monebi that the Crowner shall not be able to give his Verdict 



whether 'twas the Body of a Man or of a Beast, as thou art 
Thou shalt be mince-meat, ff^orm^ within this hour. 

JVor, He was a Coward once, nor have I ever heard one 
syllable since of his Reformation, he shall not daunt me. 

Cut, Come on ; [^DrawsJ] I '1 send thee presently to 
Erebus without either Bail or Main-prize. 

fVor. Have at you. Cutter^ an' thou hadst as many lives as 
are in Plutarchy I 'd make an end of 'em all. 

Cut, Come on, Miscreant. 

IFor, Do, do! strike an' thou dar'st. 

Cut, Coward, I '1 give thee the advantage of the first 
push, Coward. 

fVor, I scorn to take anything o' thee, Jew. 

Cut, If thou dar'st not strike nrst, thou submitt'st, and I 
give thee thy life. 

fVor, Remember, Cutter^ you were treacherous first to mc, 
and therefore must begin. Come, pox upon 't, this quarrel 
will cost us quarts o' Wine a piece before the Treaty o' Peace 
be ended. 

Cut, Here 's company coming in ; I '1 hear o' no Treaties, 
fVorm^ we'l fight it out. 

Scene 5. 

Aureliay Puny^ Cutter^ Worm, 

Aur, [Reading.] Five hundred neat Gentlemen- like 
twenty-shilling pieces, though never wash'd nor barbM — 
A curse upon him, cann't he write a Bond without these 
sotteries ? 

Pun, Why how now Panims ? fighting like two Sea^fish in 
the Map ? Why how now my little Gallimaufry, my 0A#- 
podrido of Arts and Arms ; Hola the feirce Gudgings ! 

Aur. 'Ods my life, Puny^ let 's go in again ; that *s the 
onely way to part *em. 

Pun, Do, do ! kill one another and be hang'd like Ropes 
of Onyons. 

Cut. At your command ? no. Puny ! I 'le be forc'd by no 



man; put up, fVorm\ we'l fight for no man's pleasure but 
our own. 

ff^or. Agreed ! I won't make sport with murdering any 
man, an' he were a Turk. 

Pun. Why now ye speak h'ke the Pacifique Sea ; we '1 to 
the King's Poleanon, and drink all into Pylades again; we'l 
drink up a whole Vessel there to Redintegration, and that so 
big, that the Tun of Heidelberg shall seem but a Barel of 
Pickled Oisters to 't ; mean time, thou pretty little Smith o' my 
good fortune, beat hard upon the Anvil of your Plot, I '1 go and 
provide the Spankers. Exit Puny, 

Cut, Your Cousin, Mrs. Aurelia^ has abus'd us most 

Aur. Why what 's the matter ? 

Cut. Your fether recommended us two as Suters to her. 

Aur. And she 'd ha' none of you ? What a foolish Girl 
'tis, ' to stand in her own light so ! 

JVor. I^slYj that 's not all, but she us'd us worse than if 
we'd been the veriest Rogues upon the face of the whole 

Aur. That 's a little thought too much, but 'twas safer 
erring o' that hand. 

Cut. I, we'r like to get much, I see, by complaining to you. 

Enter yane. 

Jan. Ha, ha, ha ! Here 's the key o' the Closet, go up 
sonly. Madam, ha, ha, ha ! and make no noise, dear Madam, I 
must be gone. Exit. 

Aur. Why does this little Foppitee laugh always ? 'tis such 
a Nmny that she betrays her Mistris, and thinks she does no 
hurt at all, no, not she ; well, wretched Lovers, come along 
with me now, (but softly upon your lives, as you would steal to 
a Mistris through her Mothers Chamber) and I '1 shew you 
this severe Pemlope^ lockt up alone in a Chamber with your 

Cut. As softly as Snow falls. 

Wor. Or Vapors rise. 

Aur. What are you Punish too with your Similitudes ? 
Mum — not a word — pull off your shoes at bottom of the 
stairs, and follow me. 



Scene 6. 

Enter Truman junior. 

And presently Aurelia, Cutter, and Worm appear at a Rttlt 


Trum. Why should her cruel Uncle seek t* oppose 
A Love in all respe£ls so good and equal ? 
He has some wicked end in 't, and deserves 
To be deceiv'd ! 

Cut. Deceiv'd ? pray mark that Madam. 

Trum, She is gone in to see if things be ripe yet 
To make our last attempt upon her Uncle ; 
If our Plot fail- 

Jur. A Plot 'i faith, and I shall Counter-plot yc. 

Trum, In spight of our worst Enemies, our kindred. 
And a rash Oath that 's cancell'd in the making, 
We will pursue our Loves to the last point. 
And buy that Paradise though 't be with Martyrdom ! 

Scene 7. 

Enter Lucia. 

She goes to the Table and Writes whilst he Speaks^ and gives 

him the Paper. 

Trum. She 's come, me-thinks I see her through her Veil ; 
She 's naked in my heart with all her Beauties. 

Wor. Thou hast a Bawdy heart I'le warrant thee. 

Cut. Hold your peace. Coxcomb. 

Trum. That has, I think, taken an Oath 
Quite contrary to mine, never to see 
Any thing else ! 

He 's extreme sick, and thinks he shall die, [Reads a paper given 
him by Lucia], the Dodtor and 'Pothecary have afted very well; 
I 'le be with him presently, go into my little Oratory, and 



prajr for the success — [yf cry within^ Mrs. Aurelia.] I *1 pray 
with as much zeal as any sinner, converted just upon the point 
of dea[t]h, prays his short time out. 

[Exeunt Truman & Lucia. 
jfur. What can this mean ? [They cry within.'] and the cry 
within there ? pray let *s go down and see what 's the matter. 

Enter Will and Ralph crying. 

fFilL Ah, Lord ! my poor Master ! Mrs. Aunliay Mrs. 

Aur. Here, what 's the business ? 

Ralph. Oh Lord ! the saddest accident. 

Aur. For the love of Heaven speak quickly. 

Will. I cannot speak for weeping; my poor Master's 

Aur. Poison'd ? how prethee, and by whom ? 

Will. Why by the strangest Accident, Mistris. 
The Dodtor prescrib'd one what dee' call it with a hard name, 
and that careless Rogue the 'Pothecaries man (mistaking one 
Glass for another that stood by it) put in another what dee' call 
it, that is a mortal poison. 

Aur. Oh then 'tis plain, this was the Plot they talk'd of ; 
ye heard. Gentlemen, what they said ; pray follow me and 
bear witness. Exit Aurelia. 

Cut. Undoubtedly they had a hand in 't ; we shall be 
brought to swear against them, Worm. 

Worm. I '1 swear what I heard, and what I heard not but 
I '1 hang 'em. I see I shall be revenged o' that proud Tit ; but 
it grieves me for the Colonel. 

Scene 8. 

Colonel Jolly {brought in a Chair) Aurelia, Cutter, Worm, 

Will, Ralph, other Servants. 

Joll. Oh ! I ha' vomited out all my guts, and all my 
entrails — 

Aur. Oh my dear Father ! 

?olL I 'm ^ing, daughter — ha' ye sent the pocky Dodlor 
the plaguy 'rothecary to a Justice o' Peace to be examin'd ? 

C II. T 289 


Ye^ Sir, jroor Worship's Steward and the Constable 
are cone with 'cm ; docs jour Wonhip think they did it out o' 
mahce, and not bjr a misiakr ? if I had thought they did, I M a 
hanged *eni presently, that you might ha* seen it done before 
yoo dy d« 

7fZ/L Huh, huh, huh ! I think that Rogue the Dodor did 
it, because I beat him t' other day in our drinking ! huh, 
huh, huh ! 

Amr. No, Sir, (O my dear father) no, Sir, you little think 
who were the Contrivers of your murder, e'en my Cousin Luct 
and her Gallant — Oh Lord — *t» discover'd by a miraculous 
proridence — they V both together in her Chamber now, and 
there we orerhcard *em as it pleasM — these two Gentlemen 
heard 'em as wdl as I — 

J%IL Can they be such Monsters ? Oh ! I *m as hot as 
Lmcifer — Oh — Oh — ! what did you hear 'cm say ? — Oh mjr 
stomach ! 

Cut. Why that they had a Plot — 

Aur, And that the Dodlor and 'Pothecary had done it 
rerr well. 

tVir. I and your Niece ask'd if he thought the Poison were 
strong enough. 

Aur. There never was such an Impudence ! 

IVilL How murder will out ! I always thought, fellow 
Ralphy your Mistris Lucia was naught with that young smooth- 
fac'd Varlct ; do you remember, Ralph^ what I told you in the 
Butteries once r 

Aur. Here she comes ! O Impudence ! \Enter Lucia. 

JM. Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! — go all aside a little^ and let me 
spGik with her alone. Come hither, Niece — Oh ! Oh — ! you 
see by what accident 't has pleas'd — huh — huh — huh — to take 
away your loving Uncle, Niece ! huh — 

Luc, I see 't. Sir, with that grief which your misfortune and 
mine in the loss of you does require. 

Cut. There 's a Devil for you ; but. Captain, (Joll. ani 
Luc. talk t$getbfr.) did you hear her speak o* poison, and 
whether it were strong enough ? 

fV$r. No, but I love to strike home, when I do a business, 
I 'm for through^tich ; I 'm through pac'd, what a pox should 
a man stand mincing i 



Luc, I hope, Sir, and have feith, that you '1 recover ! 
But, Sir, because the danger 's too apparent, 
And who (alas) knows how Heaven may dispose of you ? before 
it grow too late (after your blessing) I humbly beg one Boon 
upon my knees. 

yolL What is't (rise up Niece) Oh — I can deny you 
nothing at this time sure ! 

Luc. It is (I wo' not rise. Sir, till you grant it) 
That since the love 'twixt Truman and my self 
Has been so fixt, and like our fortunes equal. 
Ye would be pleas'd to sign before your death. 
The confirmation of that Love, our Contradl, 
And when your Soul shall meet above, my Others, 
As soon as he has bid you welcome thither, 
He'i thank you for this goodness to his daughter; 
I do conjure you. Sir, by his memory ! 
By all your hopes of happiness hereafter ! 
In a better world ! and all your dearest wishes of happiness for 
those whom ye love most, and leave behind you here ! 

yolL You ha' deserv'd so well o' me Niece, that 'tis impos- 
sible to deny you any thing ; where 's gentle Mr. Truman r 

Luc. In the next room, Sir, waiting on your will 
As on the Sentence of his life and death too. 

Zoll. Oh — I 'm very sick — pray bring him in. 
uc. A thousand Angels guard your life. Sir ! 
Or if you die, carry you up to heaven. [Exit. 

Wor. Was there ever such a young dissembling Witch ? 
Cut. Here *s Woman in perfeftion ! 
The Devil's in their tails and in their tongues ! 
Thejjr *re] possest both ways ! 

J oil. fVilly Ralphy is Jeremy there too ? be ready when I 
sp«dc to you. 

Enter Truman, Lucia, {veird.) 

Trum. Our prayers are heard, 'tis as we wish'd, dear Lucioy 
Oh this blest hour ! 

yoll. Take him and carry him up to the Green Chamber — 
On my belly — lock him in sure there, till you see what becomes 
of me ; if I do die, he and his Mistris shall have but an ill 

T2 2()i 


Match of it at Tyburn. Oh my Guts — lock up Luce too in 
her Chamber. 

Trum. What do ye mean, Gentlemen ? are jre mad i 

WtlL We mean to lock you up safe, Sir, for a great Jewel 
as you are ! 

Luc. Pray hear me all. 

JolL Away with 'em. 

Exit all the ServantSy with Truman and Lucia 

several ways. 

Aur. How do you, Sir? I hope you may o're-come it, 
your Nature's strong, Sir. 

yolU No, 'tis impossible ; and yet I find a little ease, but 
'tis but a flash — Aurelia — Oh there it wrings me again — fetch 
me the Cordial-glass in the Cabinet window, and the little 
Prayer-book ; I would &in repent, but it comes so hardly — I 
am very unfit to die, if it would please Heaven — so, set down 
the Glass — there — give me — 

Aur. The Prayer-book, Sir,'s all mouldy, I must wipe it first. 

^olL Lay it down too — so — it begins t' asswage a little — 
there lay down the Book ; 'twill but trouble my Brains now 
I'm a dying. 

Enter Will. 

Will. Here 's the Widow, Sir, without, and Mrs. Tahitha 
her daughter, they have heard o' your misfortune, and ha' 
brought Mr. Knock-down to comfort you. 

yoll. How? everlasting Knock-down! will they trouble a 
Man thus when he 's a dying ? Sirrah ! Blockhead ! let in 

?oseph Knock-down^ and I '1 send thee to Heaven afore me ; 
have but an hour or two to live perhaps, and that's not 
enough for him I 'm sure to preach in ! 
Will. Shall Mrs. Barebottle come in. Sir? 
yoll. That 's a She Knock-down too ; well, let her come in 
— huh ! huh ! huh ! I must bear all things patiently now; 
but Sirrah, Rogue ! take heed o' Joseph Knock-down^ thou shalt 
not live with ears if Joseph Knock-down enter. 

Enter Widow, Tabitha. 

Wid. How de' you Neighbour Colonel ? how is 't ? take 



yolL Cut ofiF in the flower o' my age Widow. 

jyid. Why, Man's life is but a Flower, Mr. Joliyj and the 
Flower withers, and Man withers, as Mr. Knock-^own observ'd 
last Sabbath-day at Evening Exercise ; But, Neighbour, you 'r 
past the Flower, you 'r grown old as well as I — 

?olL V the very flower; that damn'd Quack-salver — 
abith. Me-thoughts he was the ugliest fellow. Mother, 
And they say he*s a Papish too, forsooth. 

JVid. I never liked a Do6tor with a Red Nose ; my 
Husband was wont to say — how do you, Mrs. Aurelia? comfort 
your self, we must all die sooner or later; to day here, to 
morrow gone. 

JolL Oh the torture of such a tongue ! would I were dead 
already, and this my Funeral Sermon. 

Wid. Alas poor man ! his tongue I warrant yee is hot as 
passes; vou have a better memory than I, Tahitha^ tell him 
what Mr. Knock-down said was a Saints duty in tormenting 
sicknesses, now Poison 's a great tormentor. 

JoU. Oh ! Oh ! — this additional Poison will certainly make 
an end of me ! 

Wid. Why seek for spiritual Incomes, Mr. Colonel ; I '1 
tell you what my Husband Barebottie was wont to observe (and 
he was a Colonel too) he never sought for Incomes but he had 
some Blessing followed immediately ; once he sought for *em 
in Hartfordshire^ and the next day he took as many Horses and 
Arms in the Country as serv'd to raise three Troops ; another 
time he sought for *em in Buck/ershuryj and three days after a 
friend of his, that he owed five hundred pounds too, was 
hang'd for a Malignant, and the Debt forgiven him by the 
Parliament ; a third time he sought for 'em in Hartford- 
shire — 

Tabith. No, Mother, 'twas in IVorcester-shirey forsooth. 

Wid, I, Child, it was indeed in fVorcester-shire ; and within 
two months after the Dean of JVorcester'^s Estate fell to him. 

yolL He sought for 'em once out o' my Estate too, I thank 
him ; Oh my head ! 

fVid. Why trulv. Neighbour Colonel, he had that but for 
his Penny, and would have had but a hard Bargain of it, if he 
had not by a friend's means of the Councel hook'd in two 
thousand pounds of his Arrears. 


Cut. For shame let 's relieve him ; Colonel, you said you 
had a mind to settle some affairs of your Estate with me, and 
Captain fVorm here. 

JVid, I'l leave you then for a while, pray send for me, 
Neighbor, when you have a mind to*t Heaven strengthen 
you ; come, Tahitha. 

yoil. Aurelia^ go out with them, and leave us three together 
for half an hour. [Exit Wid. Tab. Aur. 

Stay you, fVill^ and reach me the Cordial ; I begin to hope 
that my extreme violent fit of Vomiting and Purging has 
wrought out all the Poison, and sav'd my life — my rain's 
almost quite gone, but I'm so sore and h\nt — give me the 

fVor. What d' you mean. Colonel ? you will not doat, I 
hope, now you 'r dying ? drink I know not what there, made 
by a Doctor and a 'Pothecary ? Drink a cup o' Sack, Man ; 
healing Sack ; you '1 find your old Antidote best. 

Cut, H 'as reason, Colonel, it agrees best with your nature; 
'tis good to recover your strength — as for the danger, that's 
past, I 'm confident, already. 

yoL Dost thou think so, honest Cutter ? fetch him a Bottle 
o' Sack, IViliy for that news ; I 'le drink a little my self^ 
one little Beer-glass. 

Cut, Poor creature ! he would try all ways to live ! 

Joll, Why if I do die, Cutter^ a Glass o' Sack will do me 
no hurt I hope ; I do not intend to die the Whining way, like 
a Girl that 's afraid to lead Apes in Hell — [Enter Will, with a 
Bottle and great Glass,] So, give it me ; a little fuller, — ^yet 
— it warms exceedingly — and is very Cordial. — So, — fill to the 

ff^or, [Sings,] Let 's drink, let 's drink, whilst breath we 
have ; 
You'l find but cold, but cold drinking in the Grave. 

Cut, A Catch i' faith ! Boy, go down. Boy, go down. 
And fill us t'other quart. 
That we may drink the Colonel's health. 

ff^or. That we may drink the Colonel's health. 

Both, Before that we do part. 

ff^or. Why dost thou frown, thou arrant Clown? 
Hey boyes — Tope — 



JolL Why this is very cheerly! pray let's ha* the Catch 
that we made t* other night against the Do6tor. 

fyor. Away with't, Cutter; hum — 
Come fill us the Glass o' Sack. 

Cut. What Health do we lack? 

fVor. Confusion to the Quack. 

Both. Confound him, Confound him, 
Diseases all aroimd him. 

Cut. And fill again the Sack, 

fVor. That no man may Lack, 

Cut. Confusion to the Quack, 

Beth. Confusion to the Quack, 
Confound him. Confound him. 
Diseases all aroimd him. 

IVor. He's a kind of Grave-maker, 

Cut. A Urinal Shaker, 

fVmr. A wretched Groat-taker, 

Cut. A stinking close-Stool raker, 

fVor. He's a Quack that's worse than a Quaker. 

Both. He's a Quack, etc. 

IVor. Hey, Boys — Gingo — 

yoll. Give me the Glass, fVilL I 'le venture once more 
what e're come on 't, here 's a Health to the Royal Travailer, 
and so Finis Coronat. 

fVor. Come on Boys, Fivat ; have at you agen then. 
Now a Pox on the Poll, of old Politique Isoll. 

Both. Wee'l drink till we bring. 
In Triumph back the King. 

[Cut."] May he Live till he see. 
Old Noll upon a Tree. 

Wor. And many such as he. 

Both. May he Live till, etc. 

Joll. I 'me very Sick again ; fVilly help me into my Bed ; 
rest you merry. Gentlemen. 

Cut. Nay, we '1 go in with him, Captain, he shall not die 
this bout. 

JVor. It's pity but he should, he dos't so bravely; come 
along then, kiss me, Cutter ; is not this better than quarrelling ? 

Both. May he live till he see, etc. 
Hey for Fidlers now ! [Exeunt. 



A6k 3. Scene i. 

yoUy^ Aurelia. 

JolL ^T^Is true, Aurelia^ the Story thcv all agree in; 
X 'twas nothing but a simple Plot o' the two 
Lovers to put me in fear o' death, in hope to work then upon 
my good Nature, or my Conscience, and Quack conspired with 
them out o' revenge ; *Twas a cursed Rogue though to give 
me such an unmerciful Dose of Scammony ! It might ha* 
prov'd but an ill jest ; but however, I will not be a loser by the 
business, ere I ha* done with 't. 

Aur. Me-thinks there might be something extracted out 
of it. 

Joll, Why so there shall ; I 'le pretend, Aurelia^ to be still 
desperately sick, and that I was really poison'd, no man will 
blame me after that, for whatsoever I do with my Niece. But 
that *s not all, I will be mightily troubled in Conscience, send 
for the Widow, and be converted by her : that will win her 
heart, joyn'd with the hopes of my swallowing Lucia* s portion. 

Aur, For that point I '1 assist you. Sir, Assure her that my 
Cousin Lucia is married privately this after-noon to Mr. Puny, 

JolL I would she were. Wench, (for thine and my sake) 
her Portion would be forfeited then indeed, and she would ha' 
no great need oft, for that Fop's very rich. 

Aur. Weil, Sir, I '1 bring sufficient proofs of that, to satisfie 
the Widow, and that's all you require; be pleas'd to let the 
secret of the business rest with me yet a while, to morrow you 
shall know 't. But for my own part. Sir, if I were in your 
place, I 'd rather patiently lose my Estate for ever, than xikt \ 
again with her. 

JolL Oh ! hold your self contented, good frank-hearted 
Aurelia ; would I were to marry such a one every week these 
two years: see how we differ now? 

Aur, Bless us ! what humming and hawing will be i* this 
house ! what preaching, and houling, and festing, and eating 
among the Saints ! Their first pious work will be to banish 
Fletcher and Ben Johnson out 'o the Parlour, and bring in their 
rooms Martin Mar-Prelatey and Posies of Holy Hony-«uckles, 



and a Sawf-box for a Wounded Conscience, and a Bundle of 
Grapes from Canaan, I cann't abide 'em ; but I '1 break my 
sister Tabitha^s heart within a month one way or other. But, 
Sir, suppose the King should come in again, (as I hope he will 
for all these Villains) and you have your own again o' course, 
you 'd be very proud of a Soap-boyler's Widow then in Hide-- 
parky Sir. 

yolL Oh ! then the Bishops will come in too, and she '1 
away to Nnv-England ; well, this does not do my business; I'l 
about it, and send for her. [Exit. 

Enter Ralph. 

Aur, And I'l about mine; Ralphy did you speak to Mr. 
Puny to meet me an hour hence at the back-dore in the 
Garden? he must not know the estate the house is in yet. 

Ralph. Yes, forsooth, he bad me tell you, he'd no more 
fail you than the Sun feils Bamahy^ayj I know not what he 
means by 't, but he charg'd me to tell you so, and he would 
bring (forsooth) his Regiment of five hundred. He 's a mad- 
man, I think. 

AureL Well, did you speak to Mr. Soaker to stay within 
too, the little Deacon that uses to drink with Will and you ? 

RaL Yes, forsooth, he's in the Buttery. 

Aur. Pray Heaven he don't forget my Instructions there ! 
But first I have a little trick for my Lovers to begin withall, 
they shall ha' twenty more before I ha' done with 'em. 


Scene 2. 

Enter Truman junior. 

Trum. The Veil of this mistake will soon be cast away, 
I would I could remove Lucia*s as easily, and see her face again, 
as fair, as shortly our Innocence will appear. 

But if my angry father come to know our late Intelligence 
in this unlucky business, though we ha' fiilfill'd the Letter of 
his Will, that which can satisfie a Lover's Conscience, will 
hardly do so to an old man's Passion ; Ye Heavenly Powers, or 



take away my life, or give me quickly that for which I onely 
am content to keep it. 

Scene 3. 

Enter Aurelia, {veird.) 

Ha ! I did but speak just now of Heavenly powers^ 
And my blest Angel enters, sure they have 
Heard me, and promise what I prayed for. 
My dear Lucioy I thought you'd been a kind of prisoner too. 

She gives him a Paper and embraces bim^ 
She's kinder too than she was wont to be; 
My prayers are heard and granted, I'm confirmed in't. 


By my Maid's means I have gotten Keys both of my own 
Chamber and yours ; we may escape if you please ; but that I 
fear would ruine you ; We lie both now in the same house, a 
good fortune that is not like to continue; since I have the 
engagement of your faith, I account my self your Wife already, 
and shall put my honor into your hands ; about Midnight I 
shall steal to you ; If I were to speak this I should blush, but I 
know whom I trust. 

Yours, Lucia. 

Trum, Thou dost not know me, Lucia^ [aside. 

And hast forgot thy self: I am amaz'd. 
Stay, here's a Postscript. 

(Burn this Paper as soon as you have read it.) 
Burn it ? yes, would I had don 't before, 

[Burns it at the Candle, 
May all remembrance of thee perish with thee. 
Unhappy paper ! 

Thy very ashes sure will not be innocent, 
But flie about and hurt some chast man's eyes, 
As they do mine. [weeps. 

Oh, Luciay this I thought of all misfortunes 
Would never have befaln me, to see thee 
Forget the ways of Virtue and of Honor. 
I little thought to see upon our love, 



That flourish'd with so sweet and fresh a Beauty, 
The slimy traces of that Serpent, Lust. 
What Devil has poison'd her? I know not what to say to her. 
Go, Luciay retire, prethee, to thy Chamber, 
And call thy wandring Virtue home again ; 
It is not yet fisur gone, but call it quickly, 
*Tis in a dangerous way; I will forget thy error, 
And spend this night in prayers that Heav'n may do so. 

Exit Aur. 
Would she have had me been mine own Adulterer ? 
Before my Marriage ? — Oh lust — Oh frailty — 
Where in all human natiire shall we miss 
The ulcerous fermentations of thy heat. 
When thus (alas) we find thee breaking out 
Upon the comli'st Visage of perfcdlion r [Exit. 

Scene 4. 


Aur. Pray Heaven, I ha'nt made my foolish Wit stay for 
me ; if he talk with others of the house before me, I 'm undone. 
Stay, have I my Paper ready ? [Pk/A out a Paper,'] Oh ! that 's 
well ! my Hand I 'm sure s as like hers as the Left is to the 
Right ; we were taught by the same Master, pure Italian, 
there *s her -^s and her G's I '1 swear — Oh ! are you come ? 
that's well. 

Scene 5. 

Enter Puny. 

*Tis almost four o'clock and that 's the precious hour. 

Pun. My little Heliogabalus^ here I am, Prasto! 

Aur. You'r always calline me names, Mr. Puny^ that's 
unkindly done to one that 's labouring for you, as I am. 

Pun. I ha' made more haste hither than a Parson does to a 
Living o' three hundred and fifty pounds a year. 



Aur. Punyy you'r not a man o* business I see, that's not the 
style o' business ; Well, I ha* done, I think, the work for you, 
'tis as odd a Plot as ever you heard. 

Pun, I like it better, I love odd thines. 

Aur. Why thus then, you know Mr. Truman took an 
Oath to his father never to see my Cousin more without his 

Pun. Pish, do I know that a Lawyer loves to take mony 
in Michaelmas Term? 

Aur. A pies upon you: well, my father has made iMq 
swear too, never to see Truman without his consent. 

Pun. Good, there will be a good Bo-peep love. 

Aur. For all this, they 'r resolv'd to marry this afternoon, 
(nay don't interrupt me with your Fopperies, or I *1 be gon) 
and to save their Oathes (like cunning Casuists, as all Lovers 
are) they '1 be married in a dark room (do you mark me ?), the 
Minister, Mr. Soaker^ is to marry them without Book; and 
because thei 'r bound not to speak to one another (for that I 
forgat to tell you) they'r to signifie their consent, when he asks 
'em. Will you such a one — by reverences, and giving their 
hands ; you never heard of such a humor, but the[y 're] both 
mad — 

Pun. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Rare, as Fantastical as a Whirlgig — 
but how come you to know all this, my little pretty Witch of 
Lancashire ? 

Aur. Why that I 'me coming to ; her Maid you must 
know is my Pensioner, and betrays all Counsels ; And to con- 
firm all this to you, here's her last Letter to Truman about the 
business, which my Intelligencer ha's Deliver'd to me instead of 
him ; you know her hand. Read it all over to your self. 

Pun. He swear by her Foot, this is her Hand, — hum — 
[Reads.'] my Uncle 's sick, and no Body will be at this side o' 
the House, — the matted Chamber — hum — In at the Back door 
which shall be left only put to — (ha, ha, ha !) Mr. Soaker with 
you — ^just at four — you must not stay long with me — (ha, ha, 
ha !) when 'tis done and past recovery they '1 release us of our 
Oaths — hum — I shall not fail — yours L. (ha, ha, ha.) 

Aur. Now he knows nothing o' the time, for that he should 
ha' known by this Letter; and you conceive my design, I hope? 
you 'r not a Wit for nothing. 



Pun. My dear Pytbagoreariy that I should go in and Marry 
her instead of him ? 

jfur. Right ! thou *st a shrewd reach. 

Pun. But where 's old Soaker all this while ? 

Aur. Why, I ha' told all this to him, only naming you in 
aU things instead of Truman; and that 'twas my Contrivance 
aU for my Cosens and your Sake ; he 's within at a Call, De 
send for him ; whose there ? Mary ? call hither Mr. Soaker ; 
I ha' given him five Pounds, and for so much more he '1 Marry 
you to another to morrow, if you will. 

Pun. I adore thee Queen Solomon ; I had rather be Marri'd 
by such a Plot as this, than be Nephew to Prester John — He 
mak 't a thousand Spankers. 

Enter Mr. Soaker. 

Aur. Oh come 'tis time Mr. Soaker ; as soon as you ha' done 
leave the Marri'd couple together ; He lock this Door upon you, 
go out at the to'ther, where shee '1 come in to you. 

Pun. 'Tis as dark as the Devil's conscience ; but the best 
is, the Parson ha's a good Fieri Facies^ like a Holiday, that will 
give some Lieht. 

Aur. No! there's light enough to keep you from Stumbling 
within. Oh ! I forgot to tell you, break a piece of Gold, and 
give her half, for a proof of the — do you understand me ? 

Pun. 'Tis well thought on ; but Domine Do£foribu5y can you 
say the Service without Book are you sure ? 

Soaker. I warrant you Sir ; can you Lye with her without 
Book afterwards ? 

Pun. Hee's a Wit too by Juno; all are Wits that have a 
finger in this Venison pasty. 

Aur. Shee '1 come immediately, go in ; do not stay above 
half an hour ; Mr. Puny^ my Cozen will be mist else, and all 

Pun. De warrant you, let's in; dear Learning lead the way. 
[They go in and Aurelia hcks the Door «' the out^side. 

Aur. So, all 's sure this way ; He be with you straight. 




Scene 6. 

Enttr Jolljr, Cutter. 

yoll. So, now the Widdow's gone, I may breathe a little; 
I believe realty that true Devotion is a great Pleasure, but *ti* a 
datnn'd constraint and drudgery methinks, this Disdmuladoii 
of it. I wonder how the new Saints can endure it, to be 
always at the work. Day and Night Afting ; But great Gain 
makes every thing seem easie ; And they have, I suppose, good 
Lusty Recreations in private. She's gone, the Little Holy 
thing, as proud as Lucifer, with the Imagination of havine been 
the Chosen Instrument of my Conversion from Poptry, Prilacj, 
and CavalerUm ; she's gone to bragg oft to Jeteph Kneck-dtvmy 
and bring him to Confirm me. But Cutter, thine was the best 
Humor that ever was begot in a Rogue's Noddle, to be Con- 
verted in an instant, the Inspiration way, by my example ! It 
may hap to get thee Tai/'itha. 

Cut. Nay, and I hit just pat upon her wav, for though the 
Mother be a kind of Browniit, (I know not wnat the Devil she 
is indeed) yet Tabitha is o' the Fifth Monarchy Faith, and wa* 
wont to go every Sunday a-foot over the Bridge to hear Mr. 
Peak, when he was Prisoner in Lambeth house j she has had a 
Vision too her self of Horns, and strange things. 

Joll. Pish ! Cutter, for the way that's not materia), so there 
be but enough of Nonsense and Hypocrisie ; But Cutter^ you 
must reform your Habit too, a little ; Off with that Sword and 
Buff and greasie Plume o' Ribbons in your Hat, They'l be 
back here presently, do't quickly. 

Cut, He be chang'd in an instant, like a Scene, and then He 
fetch 'em to you. {Exit. 

Scene 7. 

Enter Truman Senier. 

Sen. Trum. I, there goes one of his Swa^erers ; I could 
ha' Swagger'd with him once — Oh ! Colonel, you 'r finely 
Poison'd, are you not ? would I had the Poisoning o' you— 
Where's my Son Dick ? what ha' you done with him \ 


yolL Mr. Truman. — 

Trum. True mc no more than I true you — come — Colonel 
you*r but a Swaggering — He ha' the Law to Swagger with you, 
that I will. 

Jo/L First leave your Raging ; though you should rage like 
Tamerlain at the Bull, 'twould do no good here. 

Trum. Do you call me names too ? He have an Action o' 
Scandalum. Well Colonel, since you provoke me, the ProteSfor 
shall know what you are, and what you would have had me 
done for the King in the time of the last rising. 

yolL Mr. Trumariy I took you for a Person of Honour ; and 
a Friend to his Majesty ; I little thought to hear you speak of 
betraying a Gentleman to the Prote£for, 

Trum, s. Betraying? no Sir, I scorn it as much as you, 
but lie let him know what you are, and so forth, an' you keep 
my Son from me. 

yo/L Mr. Trumanj if you '1 but hear me patiently, I shall 
propose a thing that will, I hope, be good and acceptable both 
to your Son and you. 

Trum. Say you so Sir ? well ; but I won't be called Tamer /a in. 

yo/L My Niece, not only by her wicked design to Poison 
me, but by Marrying her self, without my consent this day to 
Punjy has (as you know very well, for you were a witness Sir 
to my Brother's will) lost all the right she had to a plentifuU 
Portion. Aurelia shall have that and my Estate, (which now 
within few days I shall recover) after my Death ; she 's not 
I think Unhandsome, and all that know her will confess she 
wants no Wit ; with these Qualities, and this Fortune, if your 
Son like her, (for though h'as injur'd me. Sir, I forget that, and 
attribute it only to the Enchantments of my Niece) I do so 
well approve both of his Birth and parts, and of that Fortune, 
which you I think will please to make him, that I should be 
extremely glad of the Alliance. 

Trum. s. Good Colonel, you were always a kind Neighbour 
and loving Friend to our Family, and so were we to you, and 
had reaped for you \ you know I would have had Dick marry 
your Niece, till you declar'd he should ha' no Portion with her. 

yoll. For that I had a particular reason. Sir ; your Son's 
above in my House ; shall I call him. Sir, that we may know 
his mind? I would not have him forc'd. 



Trum. s. Pray send for him good Colonel ; forc*d ? no, De 
make him do*t, lie warrant you. Boys must not be their own 
choosers, Colonel, they must not 'ifaith, they have their 
Sympathies and Fiddle-come-faddles in their Brain, and know 
not what they would ha' themselves. 

Scene 8. 

Enter Lucia. 

Joll. Why how now Lucia? how come you from your 
Chamber ? 

Luc. I hope you did not mean me a Prisoner, Sir, since now 
you *r satisfy 'd sufficiently that you *r not Poison*d ? 

yo/L I am not Dead, that *s true. But I may thank Heaven, 
and a strong Constitution for't; you did your weak endeavours; 
however, for the honour of our Family, and for your Father's 
sake, He speak no more o' that, but I could wish, for the 
security of my Life hereafter, that you would go home to your 
Husband, for they say you'r marri'cl Niece this day without my 
knowledge — Nay, — I 'm content, — go home to him when you 
please, you shall ha' your thousand Pounds. 

Trum. 5. Heark you. Colonel, she should not have a groat 
of 'em, not a groat ; she can't recover 't by Law ; I know the 

Luc. I marry'd Sir ? 'tis the first news I 've heard of 't. 

Scene 9. 

Enter Trum. Jun. 

[Lucia goes to put on her FeiL 

Joll. Nay, leave your pretty Jesuitical Love-tricks to salve 
an Oath ; Mr. Truman^ you may let your Son see her now. 

Trum. s. I Dick you may see her as much as you please ; 
she's marri'd. 

Trum. j. Marri'd ? 

Trum. s. I marri'd, so I say, Marri'd this after-noon to 
Mr. Puny. 



Luc. What do they mean ? 

Trum. s. And Dick I ha* got a Wife too for you, you shall 
ha* pretty Mrs. Aunlia. 

frum, /. Lucia marri'd ? 

Trum. s. Her Father and I are agreed of all things ; Heark 
you Dicky she has a brave Fortune now. 

Trum. j\ Marri'd to Puny? 

Trum. s. You shall have her presently. 

Trum. j. This after-noon ? 

Trum. s. Come Dick; there's a Wife for you Dick. 

Trum.j. I won't marry, Sir. 

Trum. 5. What do you say Sir ? 

Trum. j. I wo' not marry Sir. 

Trum. s. Get you out o* my sight you Rebel. 

yM. Nay, good Mr. Truman. 

Trum. s. He ne're acknowledge him for my Son again ; 
I tell you Colonel, he 's always thus with his wo' nots and his 

Scene lo. 

Enter Puny. 

Pun. We ha* made short work on *t ; t' was a brave quick 
Parsonides ; The little Skittish Philly got away from me I know 
not how, like an £ele out of a Basket. 

yoll. Give him a little time Mr. Truman^ he *s troubPd yet 
at my Niece's marriage, t' will over quicklv. 

Tru. s. Give my Son time, Mr. Jo/fy r marry come up — 

Scene 1 1 . 

Enter Aurelia, (after Puny.) 

jfur. What ha' you done already ? you 'r a sweet Husband 

Pun. Oh ! my little Pimp of honour ! here, here *s the five 
hundred Marigolds ; hold thy hand Dido — yonder's my Wife, 
by Satan ; how a Devil did tnat little Mephistophilus get hither 
before me ? 

en. u 305 


Aur. To her Puny; never conceal the mystery any longer, 
'tis too good a Jest to be kept close. 

Trum, s. For your sake I will then, Colonel \ Come prethee, 
Dick^ be cheerfuU. — 

Trum. j. I beseech you, — Sir — 

Trum. s. Look you there Colonel, now he should do what 
I would have him, now he 's a beseeching — 'tis the proudest 
stubborn'st Coxcomb — 

Pun. And now my noble Uncle — [to Jolly\y nay, never be 
angry at a Marriage i' the way of wit. — My fair Egyptian 
Queen, come to thine Antony. 

Luc. What would this rude fellow have ? 

Trum. j. I am drown'd in wonder ! 

Pun. 'Twas I, my dear Philocleoj that marri'd thee e'en 
now in the dark room, like an amorous Cat ; you may remember 
the Damask Bed by a better Token of Two than a bow'd 
Philip and Mary. 

Luc. I call Heaven to witness. 
Which will protedl and justifie the Innocent j 
I understand not the least word he utters, 
But as I took him always for a Fool, 
I now do for a Mad-man. 

Aur. She's angry yet to have mistook her Man. [toyolly.] 
'Tis true, Sir, all that Mr. Puny says, I mean for the Marriage, 
for the rest, she 's best able to answer for her self. 

Luc. True, Cousin, then I see 'tis some conspiracy t' ensare 
my Honor and my Innocence. 

Aur. The Parson, Mr. Soaker^ that married 'em is still 

fTi/l. He 's i' th' Buttery, shall I call him. Sir ? 

yo/L I, quickly. 

^rum. J. 'Tis the sight of me, no doubt, confounds her 
with a shame to confess any thing ; It seems that sudden fit of 
raging lust, that brought her to my Chamber, could not rest till 
it was satisfi'd, it seems I know not what. 

Enter Mr. Soaker. 

JolL Mr. Soaker^ did you marry my Niece this after-noon to 
Mr. Puny in the Matted Chamber ? 



Soai. Yes, Sir; I hope your Worship won't be angry, 
Marriage, your Worship knows, is honorable. 
Luc. Hast thou no conscience neither ? 

Scene 12. 

Entir Widow, Tabitha, Cutter in a Puritanical habit, 

JolU Niece, go in a little, I'l come t' you presently and 
examine this matter further ; Mr. Puny^ lead in your wife for 

Luc. Villain, come not near me, 
1 1 sooner touch a Scorpion or a Viper. \Exit, 

Pun. She 's as humerous as a Bel-rope ; she need not be so 
cholerique, I'm sure I behav'd my self like Propria qua 

Aur. Come in with me, Mr. Puny^ I '1 teach you how you 
shaU handle her. Exeunt Aur. Pun. 

JolL Mr. Truman^ pray take your son home, and see how 
you can work upon him there ; speak fairly to him. 

Trum. s. Speak feirly to my son P I '1 see him buried first. 

yoIL I mean perswade him. — 

T'rum. s. Oh 1 that 's another matter ; I will perswade him, 
Colonel, but if ever I speak fair to him till he mends his 
manners — Come along with me, Jacksawce, come home. 

Exeunt Trum. sen. Trum. jun. 

Trum. j. I Sir, any whither. 

fFid. What's the matter, brother Colonel, are there any 
broils here ? 

JolL Why, Sister, my Niece has married without my con- 
sent, and so it pleases, it e'en pleases Heaven to bestow her 
Estate upon me. 

Wid. Why, brother, there's a Blessing now already; If 

fou had been a wicked Cavalier still she 'd ha' done her duty, 
warrant you, and defrauded you of the whole Estate ; my 
brother Cutter here is grown the Heavenliest man o' the sudden, 
'tis his work. 

Cut. Sister Barebottle^ I must not be called Cutter any 
more, that is a name of Cavalero darkness ; the Devil was a 

U2 -jj^T 


Cutter from the beginning ; my name is now Abidmgo^ I had a 
Vision which whisper'd to me through a Key-hole, Go call thy 
self Ahedntgo, 

Tab. The wonderful Vocation of some Vessels ! 

Cut. It is a name that signifies Fiery Furnaces, and Tribu* 
lation, and Martyrdom, I know I am to sufier for the Truth. 

Tab, Not as to death, Brother, if it be his will. 

Cut. As to death. Sister, but I shall gloriously return. 

'Joll. What, Brother, after death ? that were miraculous. 

Cut. Why the wonder of it is, that it is to be miraculous. 

Joll. But Miracles are ceas'd. Brother, in this wicked Age of 

Cut. They are not ceas'd, Brother, nor shall they cease till 
the Monarchy be establish'd. 

I say again I am to ret;urn, and to return upon a Purple 
Dromadary, which signifies Magistracy, with an Ax in my 
hand that is called Reformation, and I am to strike with that 
Ax upon the Gate of Westmimter^hall^ and cry, down Babjkn^ 
and the Building called IVestminster^hall is to run away and cast 
it self into the River, and then Major General Harrison is to 
come in Green sleeves from the hforth upon a Sky-colour'd 
Mule, which signifies heavenly Instrudlion. 

Tab. Oh the Father ! he 's as full of Mysteries as an Egg 
is full of meat. 

Cut. And he is to have a Trumpet in his mouth as big as a 
Steeple, and at the sounding of that Trumpet all the Churches 
in London are to fall down. 

JVid. O strange, what times shall we see here in poor 
England ! 

Cut. And then Venner shall march up to us from the West 
in the figure of a Wave of the Sea, holding in his hand a Ship 
that shall be call'd the Ark of the Reform'd. 

Joll. But when must this be. Brother Abednego? 

Cut. Why all these things are to be when the Cat of the 
North has o're-come the Lion of the South, and when the 
Mouse of the West has slain the Elephant of the East. I do 
hear a silent Voice within me, that bids me rise up presently 
and declare these things to the Congregation of the Lovely in 
CoUman^street. TabithOy Tabithay Tabithay I call thee thrice, 
come along with me, Tabitha. [Exit. 



Tab, There was something of this, as I remember, in my 
last Vision of Horns the other day. Holy man ! I follow thee; 
farewell, forsooth, Mother, till anon. 

jfo/L Come, let *s go in too. Sister. ^Exeunt. 

A<9: 4. Scene i. 

Truman yunior, 

WHat shall I think hence-forth of Woman-kind ? 
When I know Lucia was the best of it, 
And see her what she is? What are they made of? 
Their Love, their Faith, their Souls enslav'd to passion ! 
Nothing at their Command beside their Tears, 
And we, vain men, whom such Heat-drops deceive ! 
Hereafter I will set my self at Liberty, 
And if I sigh or grieve, it shall not be 
For Love of One, but Pity of all the Sex. 

Scene 2. 

Enter Lucia. 

Ha ! she will not let me see her sure ; 
If ever, Lucia^ a Veil befitted thee, 
nfis now, that thou maist hide thy guilty blushes. 

Luc. If all their malice yet 
Have not prevail'd on Truman*s Constancy, 
They'l miss their wicked end, and I shall live still. 
I'l go and speak to him. 

Trum. Forbear, Lucia^ for I have made a second Oath, 
which I shall keep, I hope, with lesser trouble, never to see 
thy face more. 

Luc. You were wont, Sir, 
To say, you could not live without the sight oft. 

Trum. I ; 'twas a good one then. 

Luc. Has one day spoil'd it? 

Trum. O yes, more than a hundred years of time, made as 
much more by sorrow, and by sickness, could e'er have done. 


Luc. Pray hear me^ Truman : 
For never innocent Maid was wrongM as I am ; 
Believe what I shall say to you, and confirm 
By all the holiest Vows that can bind Souls. 

Trum. I have believ'd those Female tricks too long; 
I know thou canst speak willingly, but thy Words 
Are not what Nature meant them, thy Mind's Picture; 
1*1 believe now what represents it better. 
Thine own Hand, and the proof of mine own Eyes. 

Luc. I know not what you mean; believe my Tears. 

Trum. They'r idle empty Bubbles. 
Rais'd bv the Agitation of thy Passions, 
And hollow as thy heart; there is no weight in 'em. 
Go thou once, Ltuia ; Farewel, 
Thou that wer't dearer to me once, than all 
The outward things of all the World beside. 
Or my own Soul within me, fiirewcl for ever; 
Gfo to thine Husband, and love him better than 
Thou didst thy Lover. 

I ne're will see thee more, nor shall, I fear. 
Ere see my self again. 

Luc, [kneels,^ Heare me but once. 

Trum, No, 'tis enough ; Heaven hear thee when thou 
kneel'st to it. \^Exit, 

Luc, Will he ? he's gone ; now all the world has left mc, 

And I am desolately miserable ; 
'Tis done unkindly, most unkindly, Truman. 
Had a blest Angel come to me and said 
That thou wert false, I should have sworn it li'd. 
And thought that rather fain than thee. 
Go, dear, false man, go seek out a new Mistris; 
But when you ha' talk'd, and lov'd, and vow'd, and sworn 
A little while, take heed of using her 
As you do me; no, may your love to her 
Be such as mine to you, which all thy injuries 
Shall never change, nor death it self abolish. 
May she be worthier of your bed than I, 
And when the happy course of many years 
Shall make you appear old to all but her, 



May 70U in the &ir Glass of your fresh Issue 

See your own youth again ; but I would have 'em 

True in their Loves, and kill no innocent Maids ; 

For me it is no matter; when Tm dead. 

My busie soul shall flutter still about him, 

Twill not be else in Heaven; it shall watch 

Over his sleeps, and drive away all dreams 

That come not with a soft and downy wing; 

If any dangers threaten, it shall becken 

And call his spirit away, till they be past. 

And be more diligent than his Guardian Angel ; 

And when just Heaven, as I'm assur'd it wul, 

Shall clear my Honor and my Innocence, 

He'l sigh, I know, and pity my misfortunes. 

And blame himself, and curse my false Accusers, 

And weep upon my Grave 

For my wrong'd Virtue, and mistaken Truth, 

And unjust Death; I ask no more. [Exit. 

Scene 3. 

Enter Truman Junior. 

TTwas barbarously done to leave her so; 
Kneeling and weeping to me; 'twas inhuman; 
I'l back and take my leave more civilly. 
So as befits one who was once her Worshipper. 

[Goes over the Stage^ and comes back. 
She's gone; why let her go; I feel her still; 
I feel the root of her, labouring within 
To sprout afresh, but I will pluck it up. 
Or tear my heart with't. 

Scene 4. 

Enter Jolly, Truman Senior. 

JoU. He's there. Sir, pray let him now resolve you positively 
what he means to do. 

Trum. s. What he means to do. Colonel? that were fine 
'liaith ; if he be my son he shall mean nothing ; 


B07S must not have their meanings, Colonel : 
Let him mean what I mean with a Wennion. 

Trum. j. I shall be prest, I see, by 'em, upon the hateful 
Subje£l of a Marriage ; 
And to fill up the measure of AffliSion, 
Now I have lost that which I lov*d, compeU'd 
To take that which I hate. 

Trum. s. I will not be troubled, Colonel, with his meaning^ 
if he do not marry her this very evening (for I 'le ha' none of 
his Flim-flams and his May-be's) I'le send for my son 7mi 
from St. JobfCs College (he s a pretty Scholar I can teU you, 
Colonel, I have heard him syllogize it with Mr. Soaker in Mood 
and Figure) and settle my Estate upon him with her ; if he 
have his Meanings too, and his Sympathies, I *1 disinherit 'em 
both, and marry the Maid my self, if she can like me ; I have 
one Tooth yet left. Colonel, and that 's a Colt's one. 

Trum. j. Did I submit to lose the sight of Lucia 
Onely to save my unfortunate Inheritance; 
And can there be impos'd a harder Article 
For me to boggle at? 

Would I had been born some wretched Peasant's son, 
And never known what Love or Riches were. 
Ha — I '1 marry her — why should I not ? if I 
Must marry somebody, 

And hold my Estate by such a slavish Tenure, 
Why not her as well as any else ? 
All Women are alike I see by Lucioj 
'Tis but resolving to be miserable. 
And that is resolv'd for me by my Destiny. 

JolL Well, try him pray, but do it kindly. Sir, 
And artificially. 

Trum, s. I warrant you ; Dicky I '1 ha' you marry Mrs, 
Aurelia to night. 

Trum. j. To night? the warning's short. Sir, and it may 
be — 

Trum. 5. Why look you. Colonel, he 's at 's old lock, he 's 
at's May-bees again. 

Trum. J. I know not. Sir — 

Trum. s. I, and his Know-nots, you shall have him at his 
Wo'nots presently; Sirra — I will have you know. Sir — 



yolL Nay, good Mr. Truman — you know not yet what 
answer he intends to make you. 

Trum. j. Be pleas'd. Sir, to consider — 

Trum, s. Look you, Sir, I must consider now, he upbraids 
his fiither with the want of consideration, like a Varlet as 
he is. 

Trum. j. What shall I do ? why should not I do any 
Since all things are indifferent? 

yolL I beseech you, Mr. Truman^ have but a little 
patience — 
Your Either, Sir, desires to know — 

Trum. s. I do not desire him. Colonel, nor never will desire 
him, I command him upon the duty of a Child — 

yo/I. Whether you can dispose your self to love and marry 
my daughter AureUay and if you can, for several reasons we 
desire it may be presently consummated. 

Trum. j. Out with it, stubborn Tongue; 
I shall obey my fiither, Sir, in all things. 

Trum. 5. Ha ! what dee' you say. Sir ? 

yoll. This old testy Fool is angry, I think, to have no more 
occasion given him of being so. 

Trum. j. I shall obey you. Sir. 

yo/l. You speak. Sir, like a vertuous Gentleman ; the same 
obolience and resignation, to a father's will, I found in my 
AureUoy and where two such persons meet, the issue cannot 
chuse but be successful. 

Trum. s. Ah Dickj my son Dicky he was always the best 
natur'd Boy — he was like his father in that — he makes me 
weep with tenderness, like an old fool as I am — Thou shalt 
have all my Estate, DicJty I '1 put my self to a pension rather 
than thou shall want — go spruse up thy self a little presently, 
thou art not merry 'i&ith, Dicky prethee be merry Dicky and 
fetch fine Mrs. Aunlia presently to the little Church behind 
the Colonel's Garden, Mr. Soaker shall be there immediately 
and wait for you at the Porch (we '1 have it instantly. Colonel, 
done, lest the young fool should relapse) come, dear Dicky let 's 
go cheerily on with the business. 

Trum. j. What have I said ? what am I doing ? the best is, 
it is no matter what I say or do. 


yolL I '1 see Aunlia shall be readjr, and all things on my 
part within this half hour. 

Trum, s. Good, honest, noble Colonel, let me shake you 
by the hand. Come, dear DicJtj we lose time. {^Exeunt. 

Scene 5. 

Enter Cutter, Tabitha, a Boy. 

Cut, And the Vision told me, sister Tabitha j that this same 
day, the first of the seventh month, in the year of Grace 1658, 
and of Revelation, and Confusion of Carnal Monarchies the 
tenth, that we two, who are both holy Vessels, should bv an 
holy Man be joyned together in the holy Bond of sandifi'd 

Tab. I brother Abednego^ but our friends consents — 

Cut. Heaven is our friend, and. Sister, Heaven puts this 
into our thoughts ; it is, no doubt, for propagation of the ereat 
Mystery \ there shall arise from our two bodies, a great Con- 
founder of Gogmagogy who shall be called the Pestle of Antichrist, 
and his children shall inherit the Grapes of Canaan. 

Tab. My mother will be angry, I 'm afraid. 

Cut. Your Mother will rejovce, the Vision says so, sister, 
the Vision says your Mother will rejoyce; how will it rejoycc 
her righteous heart to see you, Tabitha^ riding behind me upon 
the Purple Dromedary? I would not for the world that you 
should do it, but that we are commanded from above ; for Co 
do things without the aforesaid Command is like imto the 
building of a Fire without the Bottom-cake. 

Tab. I, I, that it is, he knows. 

Cut. Now to confirm to you the truth of this Vision, 
there is to meet us at a zealous Shoomaker's habitation hard by 
here, by the command of a Vision too, our Brother Zephaniah 
Fats^ an Opener of Revelations to the Worthy in Mary ff^hitt' 
chapely and he is the chosen Vessel to joyn our hands. 

Tab. I would my Mother knew 't ; but if that holy man 
come too by a Vision, I shall have grace, I hope, not to 

Cut. Sister, let me speak one word of Instru£tion to yonder 



Tab. Oh how my bowds yem ! 

Cut. Sirra, is my litde Doctor already staying for me at 
Tom Underleather my Shoomaker's house? 

Boy. Yes, Sir, but he's in so strange a Habit, that Mr. 
Underleather^ s Boy Franck and I were ready to die with laugh- 
ing at him. 

Cut. Oh so much the better; eo you little piece of a Rogue 
and get every thing ready against f come back. [Exit Boy. 
Sister, that oabe you saw me speaking to is predestinated to 
Spiritual Mightiness, and is to be restorer of the Mystical Tribe 
of Gad- 
Tab. Oh the Wonderous — but, Brother Abednego^ will you 
not pronounce this Evening tide before the Congregation of the 
Spotless in Coleman^street ? , 

Cut. The will of the latter Vision is to be fulfilled first, as 
a Preparatory Vision; let us not make the Messenger of 
Mysteiy, who is sent by a Vision so fiir as from Mary JVhiti-- 
chapel tor our sakes, to stay too long from his lawful Vocation 
of Basket-making. Come, Sister Tabitha. 

Tab. Hei, ho ! but I will not resist. [Exeunt. 

Scene 6. 

Enter Jolly, Puny, Worm. 

yoll. Mr. Puny^ since you threaten me, I tell you plainly 
I think my Niece has undone her self by marrying thee, for 
though thou hast a fair Estate at present, I'm hainously mistaken 
if thou beest not cheated of it all within these three years by 
such Rabbit-suckers as these, that keep thee company, and like 
lying sons o' the Devil as they are, cry thee up for a Wit, when 
there 's nothing so unlike, no not any of thy own Similitudes, 
thy odious Comparisons. 

Pun. The Colonel 's raging mad, like a Baker in the Sub- 
burbs, when his Oven's over-heated. 

War. Good, very good i'&ith. 

JolL I, that was one of 'em ; as for her Portion, I thought 
to ha' given her a thousand pounds, but — 

Pun. O magnanimous Colonel ! what a portion for a 
Toothpick-maker's daughter! 


Wor, Good, shoot him thick with similies like Hail-shot. 

JolL But now thou shalt not have a groat with her. 

Fun, What not a poor old Harry-Gvosit that looks as thin 
as a Poet's Cloak? But however, my noble Mountain hearted 
Uncle, I ha' made her Maiden-head a Crack'd Groat already, 
and if I ha' nothing more from her, she shall ha' nothing more 
from me ; no, she shall foot Stokins in a Stall for me, or make 
Children's Caps in a Garret fifteen stories high. 

JolL For that matter (for though thou speak'st no sense 
I guess thy brutish meaning) the Law will allow her honorable 
Alimony out o' your Foolship's Fortune. 

Pun, And the Law will allow me her Portion too, good 
Colonel Uncle, you'r not too big to be brought into IVnt^ 
mimter-h^W ; nay. Captain, his Niece uses me worse too, she 
will not let me touch the Nail of her little finger, and raik at 
me like a Flounder-mouth'd Fish-woman with a face like 

Jolt, What flesh can support such an afFe£ted Widgen, who 
ha s not a design to cheat him of something as that Vermin 
ha's? well, I shall be able to Live now I hope as befits a 
Gentleman, and therefore I'le endure the company of Fopps and 
Knaves no longer. 

IVor, Come Colonel, let's go in, and dispute the difference 
conscienciously over a Bottle o' Sack. 

Joll, I keep no Tavern, tVorm; or if I did, thy whole 
Estate would hardly reach to a Gill. 

fVor, Colonel, thou art grown Unkind, and art Drunk this 
afternoon without me. 

JolL Without thee, Buffoon ? why I tell thee, thou shall 
never shew that Odd, Pimping, Cheating fsure o' thine within 
my Doors agen, I 'le turn away any man o' mine that shall dis- 
parage himself to drink with such a fellow as thou art. 

tror. As I ? why what am I ? pray ? Mighty Colonel ! 

Joll, Thou art or hast been every thing that *s ill, there is 
no Scandalous way of Living, no Vocation of the Devil, that 
thou hast not set up in at one time or other; Fortune ha's 
Whip'd thee about through all her streets ; Thou 'rt one that 
Lives like a Raven, by Providence and Rapin; now thou'rt 
feeding upon that raw young fellow, and doest Devour and Kaw 
him ; thou 'rt one that if thou should'st by chance go to Bed 



sober, would'st write it down in thy Almanack, for an Unlucky 
day ; sleep is not the Image of Death to thee, unless thou bee'st 
Dead drunk ; Thou art — I know not what — thou'rt any thing, 
and shall be to me hereafter nothing. 

Pun. This Colonel pisses Vinegar to day. 

ff^or. This is uncivil Language Colonel to an old Camerade, 
and one of vour own party. 

yolL My Comrade ? o' my party thou ? or any but the party 
of the Pick-purses ! 

Pun. This bouncing Bear of a Colonel will break the back 
o* my little Whelp of a Captain, imless I take him off; come 
away Captain, I 'le firk his back with two Bum-baylies, till he 
spew up every Stiver of her Portion. 

y^/L Fare-ye-well, Gentlemen, come not near these Doors 
if you love your own Leather, I '1 ha' my Scullions batter you 
with Bones and Turneps, and the Maids drown you with Piss- 
pots, if you do but approach the Windows; these are sawcy 
Knaves indeed, to come to me for Pounds and Portions. 


Wor. Poverty, the Pox, an ill Wife, and the Devil go with 
thee. Colonel. 

Pun. I vex'd him to the Gills, fVorm^ when I put that 
bitter Bob o' the Baker upon him. 

IVor. I ? i'st e'n so? not come to your House? by Jove I'l 
turn him out of it himself by a trick that I have. 

Pun. Pish I thou talk'st as Ravingly as a Costermonger in a 

fF(fr. r\ do't by Jove. 

Pun. How, prethee. Captain ? what does thy Pericranium 
mean ? 

Wor. Why here I ha *t, by Jove; I 'm ravish'd with the 
fancy of it ; let me see — ^let me see — his Brother went seven 
years ago to Guiny. — 

Pun. I, but the Merchants say he 's Dead long since, and 
gon to the Blackamores below. 

Wor. The more Knaves they; he Lives, and I'm the man. 

Pun. Ha ! ha ! ha ! thou talk'st like a Sowc'd Hoggs-face. 

fVor. I knew him very well, and am pretty like him, liker 
than any of your Simil[i]tudes, Puny ; by long Conversadon with 
him, and the Colonel, I know all passages betwixt 'em; and 


what his Humor and his Estate was, much better than he him- 
self, when he was Alive; he was a Stranger thing than any 
Monster in Afrique where he Traded. 

Pun, How ! prethee Captain ? I love these Odd fiintastical 
things as an Alderman loves Lobsters. 

fror. Why, you must know, he had quite lost his memory, 
totally, and yet thought himself an able man for business, and 
that he did himself all that was done by his man John^ who 
went always along with him ; like a Dog with a Blind man. 

Pun. Ha ! ha 1 ha ! Sublimely fantastical. 

ff^or. He carry'd a Scrowl about him of Memorandums, 
even of his Daughters and his Brothers names, and where his 
House stood ; for as I told you, he remembred nothing ; and 
where his Scrowl failed, John was his remembrancer, we were 
wont to call him Remembrancer John. 

Pun. Ha, ha, ha 1 Rarely exotique ! I '1 Aft that apple 
Johny never was such a John as I ; not John o' Gant^ or John 
o' NokeSy I will turn Remembrancer John^ as round as a Wedfding 
Ring, ha, ha, ha I 

fP^or. Well said ! but you must lay aside conceits for a 
while, and remote fancies. I'l teach you his humor instantly; 
now will I and my man John swarthy our faces over as if that 
Country's heat had made 'em so, (which will Disguise us 
sufficiently) and attire our selves in some strange Habits o' those 
Parts, (I know not how yet, but we shall see it in Spades 
Mapps) and come and take Possession of our House and Estate. 

Pun. Dear Ovidy let's about thy Metamorphosis. 

JVor. 'Twill be discover'd perhaps at last, but however, for 
the present 'twill break off his match with the Widdow,( which 
makes him so Proud now) and therefore it must be done in the 
twinkling of an Eye, for they say he's to marry her this Night; 
if all fail, 'twill be at least a merry 'bout for an hour, and a 
mask to the Wedding. 

Pun. Quick, dear Rogue! quick as Precipitation. 

fVor. I know where we can ha' Cloaths, hard by here; 
give me ten Pounds to hire 'em, and come away, but of all 
things, man John^ take heed of being witty. 

Pun. I, that's the Devil on't; well, go; 1*1 follow you 
behind like a long Rapier. {ExamU 



Scene 7. 


Aur. If they would allow me but a little time, I could play 
such a trick with Mr. Truman^ as should smart sorely for the 
rest of his Life, and be reveng'd abundantly on my Cozen, for 
getting of him from me, when I was such a foolish Girl three 

SKur ago as to be in Love with him. 
ut they would have us marri'd instantly. 
The Parson stays for us at Church. I know not what to do — 
all must out — Odds my life he 's coming to fetch me here to 
Church already. 

Scene 8. 

Enter Truman Junior. 

Trum. j. I must go through with it now ; I *1 marry her, 
And live with her according to the forms. 
But I will never touch her as a Woman. 
She stays for me — Madam — 

Aur. Sir. 

Trum. j. I cannot out with it — Madam. 

Aur. Sir — 

Trum. j. Must we go marry. Madam ? 

Aur. Our friends will have it so, it seems. 

Trum. Why will you marry me? what is there in me 
That can deserve your liking ? I shall be 
The most untoward and ill-favour'd Husband 
That ever took a melting Maid t' his Bed ; 
The Acuities of my Soul are all untuned. 
And every Glory of my Springing youth 
Is fain into a strange and suddain Winter, 
You cannot Love me sure. 

Aur. Not to DistraSion, Sir. 

Trum. No, nor I you; why should we marry then? 
It were a folly, were it not, Aureliaf 



Aur. Why they say, 'tis the best marriage, when h'ke is 
JoynM to like; now we shall make a very even match, for 
neither you Love me, nor I Love you, and tis to be hop'd we 
may get Children that will Love neither of us. 

Trum. Nay, by my soul I love you, but alas. 
Not in that way that Husbands should their Wives ; 
I cannot Toy, nor Kiss, nor do I know not what. 
And yet I was a Lover, as true a Lover — 

Aur, Alack a day ! 

Trum, *Twas then, (me-thoughts) the only happiness 
To sit and talk, and look upon my Mistriss, 
Or if she was not by, to think upon her; 
Then every Morning, next to my Devotion, 
Nay often too (forgive me Heaven) before it. 
She slipt into my ^ncy, and I took it 
As a good Omen for the following day; 
It was a pretty foolish kind of Life, 
An honest, harmless Vanity; but now 
The fairest Face moves me no more, than Snow 
Or Lillies when I see 'em, and pass by; 
And I as soon should deeply Bdl in Love 
With the fresh Scarlet of an Eastern Cloud, 
As the Red Lips and Cheeks of any Woman ; 
I do confess, Aurelia^ thou art Fair, 
And very Witty, and (I think) Well-natur'd, 
But thou 'rt a Woman still. 

Aur, The sight of you Sir, 
Makes me not repent at all my being so. 

Trum. And prethee now, Aurelia^ tell me truly. 
Are any Women constant in their Vows? 
Can they continue a whole Moneth, a Week, 
And never change their faith ? Oh ! if they could. 
They would be excellent things ; nay ne're dissemble ; 
Are not their Lusts unruly, and to them 
Such Tyrants as their Beauties are to us ? 
Are their tears true, and solid when they weep? 

Aur, Sure Mr. Truman you ha'nt slept of late. 
If we should be marry'd to Night, what would you do for 

Trum. Why? do not marry'd people sleep o' Nights? 



Aur. Yes! yes! alas good innocence. 

Trum. They have a scurvy Life on 't if they don't; 
But wee'l not Live as other people do, 
Wec'l find out some new handsome way of Love, 
Some way of Love that few shall imitate, 
Yet all admire; for 'tis a sordid thing, 
That Lust should dare t' insinuate it self 
Into the Marriage-bed; wee'l get no Children, 
The worst of Men and Women can do that; 
Besides too, if our Issue should be Female, 
They would all Learn to flatter and dissemble. 
They would deceive with Promises and Vows 
Some simple men, and then prove False and Kill 'em, 
Woidd they not do't, Aurelia? 

Aur. I, any thing Mr. Truman; but what shall we do 
Sir, when we are marrv'd, pray? 

Trum. Why ! wee 1 live very Lovingly together, 
Sometimes wee'l sit and talk of excellent things. 
And laugh at all the Nonsence of the world ; 
Sometimes weel walk together. 
Sometimes wee'l read, and sometimes eat, and sometimes 

And sometimes pray, and then at last, wee'l dye. 
And go to Heaven together ; 'twill be rare ! 

Aur. We may do all this (me-thinks) and never marry for 
the matter. 

Trum. 'Tis true, we may so I 
But since our Parents are resolv'd upon it. 
In such a Circumstance let 'em have their humor. 
My father sent me in to Complement, 
And keep a Prating here, and play the Fool ; 
I cannot do't, what should I say, Aurelia? 
What do thev use to say? 

Aur. I beueve you knew Sir, when you Woo'd my Cozen. 

Trum. I, but those Days are past; they'r gon for ever^ 
And nothine else, but Nights are to succeed 'em ; 
Gone like the faith and truth of Women kind. 
And never to be seen again ! O Lucia ! 
Thou wast a woundrous Angel in those days of thy blest state 
of Innocence. 

c n. X 3ai 


There was a Cheek I a Fore-head ! and an Eye ! — 
Did you observe her Eye, Aurelia? 

Aur, O yes Sir! there were very pretty Babies in*t. 

Trum. It was as glorious as the Eye of Heaven ; 
Like the souls Eye it peirc'd through every thing; 
And then her Hands — her Hands of Liquid Ivory ! 
Did she but touch her Lute (the pleasing'st Harmony then 

upon Earth when she her self was silent) 
The subtil motion of her Flying fingers 
Taught Musique a New art, to take the Sight, as wd as Ear. 

Aur. I, Sir, I I you 'd best go look her out, and many 
her, she has but one Husband yet. 

Trum. Nay, prethee, good Aurelia be not angry. 
For I will never Love or See her more. 
I do not say she was more Fair than thou art, 
Yet if I dia ? No, but I wo 'not say so I 
Only allow me this one short last remembrance of one I lovM 
so long. And now I think on 't, I '1 beg a favour of you, you 
will Laugh at me I know, when you have heard it, but prethee 
grant it ; 'tis that you would be Veil'd, as Lucia was of late, for 
this one day ; I would fain marry thee so ; 
*Tis an odd foolish fancy, I confess, 
But Love and Grief may be allow'd sometimes 
A little Innocent folly. 

Aur, Good ! this Fool will help me I see to cheat himself; 
At a dead lift, a little hint will serve me. 
I'l do't for him to the Life. 

Trum. Will you Aurelia? 

Aur. That 's but a small Compliance ; you '1 ha* power 
anon to Command me greater things. 

Trum. We shall be marry'd very privately; 
None but our selves ; and that 's e'en best, Aurelia. 
Why do I stick here at a Fatal step 
That must be made? Aurelia^ are you ready .^ 
The Minister stays for us. 

Aur. I '1 but go in and take my Veil, as you Command me 
Sir ; Walk but a few turns in the Garden, in less than half an 
hour I'l come to you, ha, ha, ha ! [Exit. 

Trum. I go, I am Condemn'd, and must Obey ; 
The Executioner stays for me at Church. [Exit. 



Aft 5. Scene i. 

Cohml J0II7, WiU. 

yM. 00, I have her at last, and honest Joseph Knock-^awn 
\J married us, me-thinks, with convenient brevity; 
I have some hold now upon my Estate again (though she, I 
confess, be a clog upon it worse than a Mort-gage) that, my 
good Neighbour BarebottU^ left wholly to his wife ; almost all 
the rest of the Incomes upon his seeking, go to his daughter 
TaHthaj whom Cutur has got by this time, and promises me to 
live like an honest Gentleman hereafter; now he may do so 
comfortably and merrily. She marriM me thus suddenly, like 
a good Housewife, purely to save charges; however thoueh, 
we '1 have a good Supper for her, and her eating Tribe ; Irilly 
is the Cook a doing according to my dire£tions r 

fFilL Yes, Sir, he's very hard at his business; he's swearing 
and cursing in the Kitchin, that vour Worship may hear him 
hither^ he^ fright my new old Mistris out of the house. 

y»ll. Tis such an over-roasted coxcomb — bid him be sure 
to season well the Venison that came in luckily to day. 

ff^iU. Troth, Sir, I dare not speak to him now, unless 
I shotdd put on your Worship's Armour that lies hid in the 
Barel below; he 'd like to ha' spitted me just now, like a Goose 
as I was, for telling him he look'd like the Ox that 's roasted 
whole in St. Jameses Fair. Who's there? 

7#//. See who 's at door. I shall ha' some plundred Plate, 
I hope, to entertain my friends with, when we come to visit 
the Truncks with Iron hoops; who is't. 

fyUL Nay, Heaven knows, Sir; two Fiends, I think, to 
take away the Cook for swearing. They ha' thrust in after me. 

X2 yL\ 


Scene 2. 

Enter Worm and Puny disguised liki the Merchant and John. 

fVor. They 'I hardly know us at first in these forein 

Pun, I Sir, and as the Sun has us'd us in those hot 

Wor, Why, this is my old house here, Johni ha, ha ! little 
thought I to see my old house upon Tower-bill again. Where 's 
my brother Jolly? 

JolL Tney call me Colonel Jolly, 

Wor, Ha f let me see, [Looks on his NoteJ] A burlv man 
of a moderate stature — a beard a little greyish — ha ! a quick Eye, 
and a Nose inclining to red — 

Pun, Nay, 'tis my Master's Worship, Sir, would we were 
no more alter'd since our Travels. 

ff^or. It agrees very well — Save you good brother, you little 
thought to see me here again, though I dare say you wish'd it ; 
stay, let me see, how many years, John^ is 't since we went 
from hence ? 

Pun, 'Tis now seven years. Sir. 

ff^or. Seven ? me-thinks I was here but yesterday, how the 
what de-ye-call-it runs ? how do you call it ? 

Pun, The Time, Sir. 

ff^or. I, I, the time, John ; what was I saying? I was telling 
you, brother, that I had quite forgot you ^ was I not telling him 
so J John ? 

foil. Faith we 'r both quits then ; I '1 swear I ha' forgot 
you ; why you were dead five years ago. 

ff^or. Was I ? I ha* quite forgot it ; Johny vras I dead five 
years ago? my memory fails me very much of late. 

Pun, We were worse than dead. Sir, we were taken by a 
barbarous Nation, and there made slaves; John^ quoth he? 
I was poor John I'm sure; they kept us three whole years 
with nothing but Water and Acorns, till we look'd like Wicker 

ff^or. What, Sirrah, did your Master look like ? I *1 teach 
you to say your Master look'd like what de-ye-call 'umt. 



y$lL Where did they take you prisoners? 

jy^r. Nay, ask John^ he can tell you I warrant you ; 'twas 
in — tell him, Tfohny where it was. 

Pun. In Guiny. 

yolL By what Country-men were vou taken ? 

jyor. Why they were called — I ha forgot what they call 
'em, 'twas an odd kind o' name, but John can tell you. 

Pun, Who I, Sir? do you think I can remember all 

fror. Tis i' my Book here I remember well. Name any 
Nation under the Sun. 

Pun. I know the name. Sir, well enough ; but I onely try'd 
my Master's memory, 'Twas the Tartarians. 

ff^or. I, I, those were the men. 

y^lL How, John ? why all the world man lies betwixt 'em, 
they live up in the North. 

Pun. The North? 

?olL I the very North, John, 
un. That's true indeed, but these were another Nation of 
Tartarians that liv'd in the South, they came antiently from 
the others. 

JoU. How got you from *em, Johuy at last ? 
run. Why fiiith. Sir, by a Ladle's means, who, to tell you 
the truth, fell in love with me ; my Master has it all in his 
Book, 'tis a brave story. 

?olL In what Ship came you back? 

^un. A plague oft, that question will be our mine. 

War. What Ship ? 'twas cdl'd a thing that swims, what 
dee you call 't ? 

7#//. The Mermaid? 

Jf^or. No, no, let me see. 

7#//. The Triton? 

Wor, No, no, a thing that in the water does — it swims in 
the water — 

Joll. What is 't ? the Dolphin ? 

JVor. No, no, I ha' quite forgot the name on 't, but 'tis no 

matter, it swims — 

?#//. What say you, John? 
un. I, Sir, my Master knows well enough ; you cann't 
conceive the misery we endur'd. Sir. 



JolL Welly Brother, IM but ask you one question morep 
where did you leave your Will ? 

Pun. 'Life, now he's pos'd again — we shall never carry 't 

Wor. I'l tell you presently. Brother — let me see, [Riods 
in his ScrowL] Memorandums about my Will ; left to my 
Brother the whole charge of my Estate — ^hum — hum — ^five 
thousand pounds — hum— What did you ask me, brother? 

Joll. In what place you left your Will? 

Wor. I that was it indeed — , that was the very thing you 
ask'd me ; what a treacherous memory have 1 1 my memory 
is so short — 

Joll. This is no Answer to my Question yet 

Jf^or. 'Tis true indeed ; what was your Question, brother? 

Joll. Where you left your Will ? 

Jf^or. Good Lord, that I should forget you ask'd me that I 
I had forgot it, i' faith law that I had, you '1 pardon, I hope, 
my Infirmity, for I alas — alas — I ha' forgot what I wsis going 
to say to you, but I was saying something, that I was. 

yoll. Well, Gentlemen, I 'm now in haste, walk but a while 
into the Parlour there, I '1 come to you presently. 

Hy^or. But where 's my daughter — 

Pun. Lucioy Sir ? 

ff^or. I, Lucia — put me in mind to ask for her (a fhgat 
o' your Tartarians.) 

Fun. And o' your What dee-ye-call-'ems. 

ff^or. 'Life, Tartarians ! 

[Exeunt Worm, Puny. 

yoll. If these be Rogues, (as Rogues they seem to be) I 
will so exercise my Rogues, the tyranny of a new Beadle over 
a Beggar shall be nothing to 't ; what think'st thou of *em, 

Will. Faith, Sir, I know not — h'as just my Masters Nose 
and Upper-lip i but if you think it be not he. Sir, I'l beat 'em 
worse than the Tartarians did. 

Joll. No, let 's try 'em first — trick for trick — Thou were 
wont to be a precious Knave, and a great A£tor too, a very 
Roscius; did'st not thou play once the Clown in Musidarusf 

mil. No, but I plaid the Bear, Sir. 

Joll. The Bear ! why that 's as good a Part ; thou 'rt an 



Adtor then I '1 warrant thee, the Bears a well-penn'd Part, 
and you remember my Brother's himior, don't you? They 
have ahnost hit it. 

WilL I, Sir, I knew the shortness of his memory, he would 
always forget to pay me my Wages, till he was put in mind 

JolL Well said, I '1 dress thee within, and all the Servants 
shall acknowledge thee, you conceive the Design — ^be confident, 
and thou ca[n]st not miss ; but who shall do trusty John ? 

fVilL Oh, Ralph the Butler, Sir,'s an excellent try'd Adtor, 
he playM a King once ; I ha' heard him speak a Play ex tempore 
in the Butteries. 

JolL O excellent Ralph! incomparable Ralph against the 
world ! Come away William^ I '1 give you instrudiions within, 
it must be done in a moment. [Exeunt. 

Scene 3. 

Enter Aurelia, Jane. 

Jane* Ha, ha, ha ! this is the best Plot o' yours, dear 
Madam, to marry me to Mr. Truman in a Veil instead of your 
self; I cann't chuse but laugh at the very conceit oft ; 'twill 
make excellent sport : My Mistris will be so mad when she 
knows that I have got her Servant from her, ha, ha, ha ! 

Aur, Well, are you ready? Veil your self all over, and 
never speak one word to him, what ever he says, (he '1 ha' no 
mind to talk much) but give him your hand, and go along with 
him to Church ; and when you come to, I take thee — mumble 
it over that he mayn't distinguish the voice. 

Jane, Ha, ha, ha ! I cann't speak for laughing — dear hony 
Madam, let me but go in and put on a couple o' Patches ; you 
cann't imagine how much prettier I look with a Lozenge under 
the Left Eye, and a Half Moon o' this cheek ; and then I 'le 
but slip on the Silver-lac'd Shoes that you gave me, and be with 
him in a trice. 

Aur. Don't stay, he 's a fentastical fellow, if the whimsey 
take him he '1 be gone. [Exeunt. 



Scene 4. 


They say he's to pass instantly this way 
To lead his Bride to Church ; ingrateful Man I 
I '] stand here to upbraid his guilty Conscience, 
And in that blaclc attire in which he saw me 
When he spolce the last kind words to mc ; 
'Twill now befit my sorrows, and the Widow-hood of my 

He comes alone, what can that mean i 

Scene 5. 

Enttr Truman junior. 

Trum, Come, Madam, the Priest stays for US too long; 
I ask your pardon for my dull delay. 
And am asham'd oft. 

Luc. What does he mean ? I 'I go with him what e'er it 
mean. lExmil. 

Scene 6. 

Enter Cutter, Tabitha, Boy. 

Cut. Come to my bed, my dear, my dear, {Sii^t. 

My dear come to my bed. 
For the pleasant pain, and the loss with gain 

Is the loss of a Maidenhead. 
For the pleasant, etc. 
Tab. Is that a Psalm, Brother Husband, which jrou sing? 
Cut. No, Sister Wife, a short Ejaculation onely. 
Well said, Boy, bring in the things,— — (Bey hringi a Hat and 
Feather^ Sword and Belty bread Lac^d Band^ and Periwig. 

Tab. What do you mean, Brother Abednepf you will not 
turn Cavalier, I hope, again, you will not open before Sim in 
the dressings of Babyltnc 


Cut. What do these cloathes befit Queen Tabitha^s husband 
upon her day o' Nuptials ? this Hat with a high black chimney 
for a crown, and a brim no broader than a Hatband ? Shall I, 
who am to ride the Purple Dromedary, go drest like Revelation 
Fats the Basket-maker? Give me the Peruique, Boy; shall 
Empress Tabitha^s husband go as if his head were scalded ? or 
wear the Seam of a shirt here for a Band ? Shall I who am 
zealous even to slaying, walk in the streets without a Sword, and 
not dare to thrust men from the wall, if any shall presume to 
take *t of Empress Tabitha ? Are the Fidlers coming. Boy ? 

Tab. Pish, I cannot abide these doings ; are you mad ? there 
come no prophane Fidlers here. 

Cut. Be peaceable gentle Tabitha ; they will not bring the 
Organs with them hither ; I say be peaceable, and conform to 
Revelations ; It was the Vision bad me do this ; Wil't thou 
resist the Vision ? 

Tab. An' these be your Visions ! little did I think I wusse — 
O what shall I do ? is this your Conversion ? which of all the 
Prophets wore such a Map about their Ears, or such a Sheet 
about their Necks ? Oh ! my Mother ! what shall I do ? 
I'm undone. 

Cut. What shalt thou do ? why, thou shalt Dance, and 
Sing, and Drink, and be Merry \ thou shalt go with thy Hair 
Curl'd, and thy Brests Open ; thou shalt wear fine black Stars 
upon thv Face, and Bobs in thy Ears bigger than bouncing 
Pears ; Kay, if thou do'st begin but to look rustily — I M ha 
thee Paint thy self, like the whore o' Babylon. 

Tab. Oh ! that ever I was Born to see this day — 

Cut. What, dost thou weep. Queen Dido? thou shalt ha' 
Sack to drive away thy Sorrows ; bring in the Bottle, Boy, I '1 
be a Loving Husband, the Vision must be Obey'd ; Sing 
Tabitha; Weep o' thy Wedding day ? 'tis ominous ; Come to 
my Bed my Dear, etc. 

On, art thou come Boy? fill a Brimmer, nay, fuller yet, yet a 
little fuller ! Here Lady Spouse, here 's to our sport at Night. 

Tab. Drink it your self, an you will ; I '1 not touch it, not I. 

Cut. By this hand thou shal 't pledge me, seeing the Vision 
said so; Drink, or I'l take a Coach, and carry thee to the 
Opera immediately. 

Tab. Oh Lord, I can't abide it— [Drinks off. 



Cut. Why, this will chear thy Heart ; Sack, and a Husband ? 
both comfortable things ; have at you agen. 

Tab. I'l pledge you no more, not I. 

Cut. Here take the Glass, and take it off— off every drop, 
or I '1 swear a hundred Oaths in a breathing time. 

Tab, Well ! you 'r the strangest man — IDrinis. 

Cut. Why, this is right ; nay, off with 't ; so — but the 
Vision said, that if we left our Drink behind us we should be 
Hang'd, as many other Honest men ha' been, only by a little 
negligence in the like case ; Here 's to you Tabitha once agen, 
we must fulfill the Vision to a Tittle. 

Tab. What must I drink agen ? well ! you are such another 
Brother — Husband. 

Cut. Bravely done, Tabitha ! now thou Obey'st the Vision, 
thou wil't ha' Revelations presently. 

Tab. Oh ! Lord ! my Head's giddy — nay. Brother, Husband, 
the Boy's taking away the Bottle, and there's another Glass or 
two in it still. 

Cut. O Villainous Boy ! fill out you Bastard, and squeeze 
out the last drop. 

Tab. I '1 drink to you now, my Dear ; 'tis not handsome 
for you to begin always — [Drinks.'] Come to my Bed my Dear, 
and how wast ? 'twas a pretty Song, me-thoughts. 

Cut. O Divine Tabitha f here come the Fidlers too, strike 
up ye Rogues. 

Tab. What must we Dance too ? is that the Fashion ? 
I could ha' danc'd the Curranto when I was a Girl, the Cur- 
ranto's a curious Dance. 

Cut. We '1 out-dance the Dancing disease ; but Tabithay 
there's one poor Health left still to be drunk with Musique. 

Tab. Let me begin 't ; here Duck, here 's to all that Ix>ve 
us. [Drinki. 

Cut. A Health, ye Eternal Scrapers, sound a Health ; rarely 
done Tabithay what think'st thou now o' thy Mother i 

Tab. A fig for mv Mother ; I '1 be a Mother my self shortly; 
Come Duckling, shall we go home ? 

Cut. Go home ? the Bride-groom and his Spouse go home ? 
no, we '1 Dance home ; afore us Squeakers, that way, and be 
Hane'd you Sempiternal Rakers. O brave ! Queen Tabitha I 
Excellent Empress Tabitha^ on ye Rogues ! [^Exiunt. 



Scene 7. 

Enter Jolly, Worm, Puny. 

fVer* But where's my what dee ye call her, Brother ? 

20U. What Sir? 
^«r. {Reads.) My Daughter — Lucia^ a pretty fiiir Com- 
eexioned Girl, with a Black Eye, a Round Chin, a little 
impled, and a Mole upon — I would fain see my daughter — 

y^lL Why, you shall Sir presently, she 's very well ; what 
Noise is that ? how now ? what 's the matter ? 

Enter Servant. 

Serv. Ho ! my old Master ! my old Master's come, he 's 
Lighted just now at the door with his man yohn ; he 's asking 
for you, he longs to see you ; my Master, my old Master. 

J9IL This fellow *s Mad. 

Serv. If you wo'nt believe me, go but in and see Sir ; he 's 
not so much alter'd, but you '1 quickly know him, I knew him 
before he was Lighted, pray, go in Sir. 

y«//. Why, this is strange — there was indeed some weeks 
since a report at the Exchange that he was Alive still, which 
was brought by a Ship that came from Barbary; but that he 
should be Split in two after his Death, and Live agen in both, 
is wonderfull to me. I '1 go see what 's the matter. 

[Exeunt Jolly, Servant. 

Pun. I begin to shake like a Plum-tree Leaf. 

fVor, Tis a meer Plot o' the Devils to have us beaten, if he 
send him in just at this Nick. 

Scene 8. 

Enter Ralph {as John) and two or three Servants. 

1. Serv. Ah Rogue, art thou come at last? 

2. Serv. Why, you'l not look upon your Old friends ! give 
me your Golls, John. 


Ral. Thank ye all heartiljr for jrour Love ; thank you with 
all my Heart ; my old Bed-feUow, Robin^ and how Qot% little 
Ginny do ? 

3. Serv. A murren take you, you M ne're leave your 

Pun. A murren take ye all, I shall be paid the Portion here 
with a witness. 

Ral. And how does Ralph ? good honest Ralph ; there is 
not an honester Fellow in Christendome^ though I say 't my self, 
that should not say 't. 

2. Serv. Ha, ha, ha ! Why Ralph the Rogue *8 well still ; 
Come let 's eo to him into the Buttery, he '1 be Oveijoy'd to 
see thee, and give us a Cup o' the best Stineo there. 

Ral. Well said ; Steel to the back still Robin ; that was 
your word you know; my Master's coming in ! go, go, II 
follow you. 

I. Serv. Make haste, good John. 

Ral. Here's a Company of as honest Fellow-servants ; I'm 
glad, I'm come among 'em agen. 

If^or. And would I were got out from 'em, as honest as thcjr 
are ; that Robin has a thrashing hand. 

Pun. John with a Pox to him ! would I were hid like a 
Maggot in a Pescod. 

Scene 9. 

Enter Jolly, William. 

Joll. Me-thinks you 'r not return'd, but born to us anew. 

W'ill. Thank you good Brother j truly we ha* past through 
many dangers ; my man John shall tell you all, I 'm Old and 

Enter Servant. 

4. Serv. Sir, the Widdow (my Mistriss I should say) u 
coming in here with Mr. Knock^down^ and four or five more. 

Joll. O'ds my Life ! this farce is neither of Dodtrine nor 
Use to them ! keep 'em here, John^ till I come back. 

{Exit J0U7. 




IVor, I *m glad the Colonel's gone ; now will I sneak away, 
as if I had stoln a Silver spoon. 

Will. Who are those, John ? by your leave Sir, would you 
speak with any body here r 

Wor. The Colonel, Sir ? but I '1 take some other time to 
wait upon him, my occasions call me now. 

fyUL Pray stay, Sir, who did you say you would ha* spoken 

fVor. The Colonel, Sir ; but another time will serve ; he 
has business now. 

fFilL Whom would he speak with, John ? I forget still. 

RaL The Colonel, Sir. 

JVilL Colonel ! what Colonel ? 

Wvr, Your brother, I suppose he is Sir, but another 
time — 

WiU, 'Tis true indeed ; I had forgot, I&ith, my Brother 
was a Colonel ; I cry you mercy Sir, he '1 be here presently. 
Ye seem to be Foreiners by your habits. Gentlemen. 

Wvr. No Sir, we are English-men. 

WilL English-men ? law you there now ! would you ha* 
spoke with me. Sir? 

Wvr. No Sir, your Brother ; but my business requires no 
haste, and therefore — 

WiU. YouV not in haste, you say ; pray Sir, sit down then, 
may I crave your name. Sir ? 

Wmr. My name's not worth the knowing Sir — 

Will. This Gentleman? 

Wvr. 'Tis my man. Sir, his name's John, 

Pun. I '1 be John no more, not I, I '1 be Jackanapes first ; 
No, my name's Timothy Sir. 

Will. Mr. John Timothy ^ very well, Sirj ye seem to be 

War. We are just now as you see, arriv'd out of Afrique^ 
Sir, and therefore have some business that requires — 

Will. Of AJriquef law ye there now; what Country, 

Wor. Pristir-John^s Country ; &re you well. Sir, for the 
present, I must be excus'd. 

Will. Marry God forbid ; what come from Prester^John^ 
and we not Drink a Cup o' Sack together. 



[Pun.] What shall I do? Friend, shall I trouble you to shew 
me a private place ? I '1 wait upon you presently agen, Sir. 

ff^ilL You'l stay here Master? — 

Pun. I '1 only make a little Maid's water Sir, and come 
back to you immediately. 

Ral. The door's lock'd Sir, the Colonel ha's locked us in 
here — why do you shake Sir? 

Pun. Nothing — only I have extreme list to make water. 
Here's the Colonel, I'l sneak behind the Hangings. 

Scene i o. 

Enter Jolly, Widdow. 

%//. We'l leave those Gentlemen within a while upon the 
pomt of Reprobation ; but Sweet heart, I ha' two Brothers here, 
newly arriv'd, which you must be acquainted with. 

frid. Marry, Heaven fore-shield ! not the Merchant I 

JolL No, brethren in Love, only — How dee you Brother ? 

Jf^or. I your Brother ; what de'e mean ? 

JolL Why, are not you my brother Jolfyy that was taken 
Prisoner by the Southern Tartars ? 

Wor. I Brother, I by Tartars? 

JolL What an impudent Slave is this ? Sirra, Monster, 
did'st thou not come with thy man John ? 

Wor. I my man John ? here 's no such person here ; you 
see you'r mistaken. 

JolL Sirra, I '1 strike thee Dead. 

kVor. Hold, hold. Sir, I do remember now I was the 
Merchant J oily ^ but when you ask'd me I had quite forgot it ; 
alas, I 'm very Crasie. 

JolL That 's not amiss ; but since thou art not he, I must 
know who thou art. 

Wor. Why, do'nt you know me? I'm Captain fVimiy 
and Puny was my man John. 

?olL Where's that fool. Puny? is he slipt away? 
un. Yes, and no fool for't neither for ought I know yet 
ff'or. Why, we hit upon this frolique. Colonel, only for a 



kind o' Mask (de' jt conceive me, Colonel ?) to celebrate your 
Nuptiak ; Mr. Puny had a mind to reconcile himself with you 
in a merry way o' Drollery, and so had I too, though I hope 
you were not in earnest with me. 

JoU. Oh ! is that all ? well said fFill, bravely done fTill, 
Ifiuth ; I told thee, ^i7/, what 'twas to have A£ied a Bear ; 
and Ralph was an excellent John too. 

ff^^r. How 's this ? then I 'm an Ass agen ; this damn*d 
Funics Tearfulness spoilM all. 

Pun, This cursed Coward Worm ! I thought they were not 
the right ones. 

yolL Here's something for you to drink ; go look to Supper, 
this is your Cue of Exit. [Ex. Will and Ralph. 

fyU, What need you, Love, ha' given 'em any thing ? in 
truth, Love, you'r too lavish. 

ff^or. 'Twas wittily put off o' me however. 

Scene 1 1 . 

Enter Cutter, Tabitha, with Fidlers. 

2olL Here are more Maskers too, I think \ this Masking is 
eavenly entertainment for the Widow, who ne'er saw any 
Shew yet but the Puppet-play o' Ninive, 

Cut. Stay without. Scrapers. 

Tab. Oh Lord, I'm as weary with Dancing as passes; 
Husband, husband, yonder 's my Mother ; O mother what do 
you think I ha' been doing to day ? 

ff^id. Why what. Child? no hurt, I hope. 

Tab. Nay nothing, I have onely been married a little, and 
my husband Abednego and I have so danc'd it since. 

Cut. Brave Tabitha still ; never be angry Mother, you 
know where Marriages are made, your Daughters and your 
own were made in the same place, I warrant you, they r so 

fVid. Well, his will be done — there 's — no resisting Provi- 
dence — but how, son Abednego^ come you into that roaring 
habit of Perdition ? 



Cut. Mother, I was commanded by the Vision, there is 
some great end for it of Edification, which you shall know hy 
the sequel. 

Scene 1 2. 

Enter Truman senior^ Truman Junior^ Lucia veiled. 

Trum. sen. Come, Dick^ bring in your wife to your t* other 
father, and ask hi[s] blessing handsomely ; 
Welcome, dear daughter ; oiF with your Veil ; 

{^Luc. unveils. 
Heaven bless ye both. 

JoU, Ha ! what 's this ; more masking ? why how now, 
Mr. Truman ? you ha* not married my Niece, I nope, instead 
o' my daughter ? 

Trum, j, I onely did, Sir, as I was appointed, 
And am amaz'd as much as you. 

Trum, s. Villain, Rebel, Traitor, out o' my sight you son 
of a — 

Joll, Nay, hold him ; patience, good Mr. Truman^ let 'i 
understand the matter a little — 

Trum, s, I wo' not understand, no that I wo* not, I wo' not 
understand a word, whilst he and his Whore are in my sight 

Joll, Nay, good Sir — 
Why, what Niece ? two husbands in one afternoon ? that 'i 
too much o* conscience. 

Luc, Two, Sir ? I know of none but this. 
And how I came by him too, that I know not. 

Joll, This is Ridle me ridle me — where's my Daughter? 
ho ! Aurella, 

Scene 13. 

Enter Aurelia. 

Aur, Here, Sir, I was just coming in. 

Joll. Ha' not you married young Mr. Truman f 

Aur. No, Sir. 



Joll. Why, who then has he marri'd? 

Aur. Nay that, Sir, he may answer for himself. 
If he be of age to marry. 

JolL But did not you promise me you'd marry him this 
afternoon, and go to Church with him presently to do't. 

Aur. But, Sir, my Husband forbad the Banes. 

y^lL They *re all mad ; your Husband ? 

Aur, I Sir, the truth o' the matter, Sir, is this, (for it must 
out I see) 'twas I that was married this afternoon in the Matted 
Chamber to Mr. Punyy instead o' my Cousin Lucia, 

JoJL Stranger and stranger! what, and he not know't? 

j/ur. No, nor the Parson, Sir, himself. 

JcII. Hey day ! 

Aur, 'Twas done in the dark. Sir, and I veil'd like my 
Cousin ; 'twas a very clandestine marriage, I confess, but there 
are sufficient proofs of it ; and for one, here 's half the Piece 
of Gold he broke with me, which he '1 know when he sees. 

Pun, O rare, by Hymen I 'm glad o' the change ; 'tis a 
pretty Sorceress by my troath ; Wit to Wit quoth the Devil to 
the Lawyer ; I '1 out amongst 'em presently, 't has sav'd me a 
beating too, which perhaps is all her Portion. 

yolL You turn my Head, you dizzie me ; but wouldst thou 
marrie him without either knowing my mind, or so much 
as his? 

Aur, His, Sir ? he gave me five hundred pieces in Gold to 
make the Match ; look, they are here still. Sir. 

yolL Thou hast lost thy senses. Wench, and wilt make me 
do so toa 

Aur. Briefly the truth is this. Sir, he gave me these five 
hundred Pieces to marry him by a Trick to my Cousin Lucia^ 
and by another Trick I took the money and married him my 
self; the manner. Sir, you shall know anon at leisure, onely 
your pardon. Sir, for the omission of my duty to you, I beg 
upon my knees. 

ydL Nay, Wench, there 's no hurt done, fifteen hundred 
pounds a year is no ill match for the daughter of a Sequestred 
Cavalier — 

Aur. I thought so. Sir. 

ydL If we could but cure him of some sottish affections, 
but that must be thy task. 

c. II Y 337 


Aur. My life on't, Sir. 

Pun. Vi out; Uncle Father jour Blessing — my little 
Matchivily I knew well enough 'twas you ; what did you think 
I knew not Cross from Pile ? 

Aur. Did you i' faith ? 

Pun. Ij by this kiss of Amber-grees, or I 'm a Cabbage. 

Aur. Why then you out-witted me, and I'm content 

Pun. A pox upon you Merchant Jolfyy are you there? 

Joll. But stay, how come you, hfiece, to be marri'd to 
Mr. Truman? 

Luc. I know not. Sir, as I was walking in the Garden. 

Trum. J. I thought 't had been • . • but blest be the 

What ever prove the Consequence to all 
The less important fortunes of my life. 

JolL Nay, there 's no hurt done here neither — 

Trum. s. No hurt, Colonel? I'l see him hang'd at my 
door before he shall have a beggarly — 

Joll. Hark you, Mr. Truman^ one word aside [Tali 
aside,] (for it is not necessary yet my wife should know to 

Aur. This foolish Jane (as I perceive by the story) has lost 
a Husband by staying for a Black patch. 

JolL Though I in rigour by my brothers Will mieht claim 
the forfeiture of her Estate, vet I assure you she shaU have it 
all to the utmost farthing i m a day like this, when Heaven 
bestows on me and on my daughter so unexpected and so fair 
a fortune, it were an ill return to rob an Orphan committed to 
my Charge. 

Aur. My father's in the right. 
And as he clears her Fortune, so will I 
Her Honor. Hark you. Sir. 

Trum. s. Why you speak. Sir, like a Vertuous Noble 
Gentleman, and do just as I should do my self in the same 
case ; it is — 

Aur. *Twas I upon my credit in a Veil ; [to Trum. jun. 
I M tell, if you please, all that you said, when you had read 
the Letter. But d' you hear, Mr. Truman^ do not you believe 
now that I had a design to lie with you (if you hao consented 
to my coming at midnight) for upon my faith I had not, but 



did it purely to try upon what terms your two Romantique 
Loves stood. 

Cut. Ha, ha, ha ! but your Farce was not right methinks 
at the end. 

Pun. Why how, pray ? 

Cut. Why there should ha' been a Beating, a lusty Cudgeling 
to make it come oS smartly with a twang at the tail. 

ff^or. Say you so ? h' as got a set of danmable brawny 

Cut. At least yohn Pudding here should ha' been basted. 

ff^9r. A curse upon him, he sav'd himself like a Rat behind 
the Hangings. 

Tnnrn. J. O LuciOj how shall I beg thy pardon 
For my unjust suspitions of thy Virtue ? 
Can you forgive a very Repentant sinner? 
Will a whole life of Penitence absolve me ? 

Trum. s. 'Tis enough, good noble Colonel, I 'm satisfi'd ; 
Come, Dici^ I see 'twas Heaven's will, and she 's a very worthy 
virtuous Gentlewoman ; I 'm old and testy, but 'tis quickly 
over; my blessing upon you both. 

Cut. Why so, all 's well of all sides then ; let me see, here 's 
a brave Coupling day, onely poor ff^orm must lead a Monkish 
Ufe oft. 

Aur. I '1 have a Wife for him too, if you wiU, fine Mrs. Jane 
within ; [aside.] I 'le undertake for her, I ha' set her a gog to 
day for a husband, the first comer has her sure. 

fyor. I, but what Portion has she, Mrs. Puny? for we 
Captains o' the King's side ha' no need o' Wives with nothing. 

j/ur. Why Lozenges, and Half-moons, and a pair of Silver- 
lac'd Shoes ; but that Tropes lost to you ; well, we '1 see among 
us what may be done for her. 

jfoU. Come, let 's go in to Supper ; there never was such a 
day of Intrigues as this in one Family. If my true Brother 
had come in at last too after his being five years dead, 'twould 
ha' been a very Play. [Exeunt. 


Y2 ^3a 



Spoken by 


[Without his Peruique. 

ME'thinis a Vision bids me silence treaty 
And some words to this Congregation speak^ 
So great and pay a one I ne*er did meet 
At the Fifth Monarch's Court in Coleman-street* 
But yet I wonder much not to espy a 
Brother in all this Court called Zephaniah. 
Bless me! where are we? What may this place bif 
For I begin by Vision now to see 
That this is a meer Theater ; well then^ 
If^t be ien so VI Cutter be again* 

[Puts on hk Peruique. 
Not Cutter the pretended Cavalier: 
For to confess ingenuously here 
To you who always of that Party were^ 
I never was of any ; up and down 
I rowldy a very Kakehell of this Town, 
But now my Follies and my Faults are endedy 
My Fortune and my Mind are both amended^ 
And if we may believe one who has faiPd beforey 
Our Author says He^l mendj that isy He* I write w nwre. 




At Court. 

XHe Madness of your People^ and the Rage^ 
Tw^ve seen too long ufm the Puhlique Stagey 
time at last (great Sir) *tis tinu to see 
Their Tragique Follies brought to Comedy, 
/Ttfwf tlame the Lowness of our Scene^ 
Wi Imwhly think some Persons there have been 
On the JVorWs Theatre not long agOy 
Much more too Highy than here they are too Low, 
And well we know that Comedy of oldy 
Did her Plebeian rank with so much Honour holdy 
That it appeared not then too Base or Lighty 
For the Great Scipio's Conquering hand to Write. 
How iroy if such mean Persons seem too rudoy 
fFhen into Royal presence they intrudcy 
Tet we shall hope a pardon to receive 
From youy a Prince so praxis* d to forgive ; 
A PrtncOy who with th* applause of Ear[f]h and Heaveny 
The rudemss of the Vulgar has rorgiven, 




By way of 


Concerning the Government of Oliver Cromwell. 

IT was the Funeral day of the late man who made himself 
to be called Prote£four, And though I bore but little 
ztlt&\oi\y either to the memory of him, or to the trouble and 
folly of all publick Pageantry, yet I was forced by the im- 
portunity of my company to go along with them, and be a 
Spectator of that solemnity, the expectation of which had been 
so great, that it was said to have brought some very curious 
persons (and no doubt singular Virtuoso's) as far as from the 
Mount in Cornwall^ and from the Orcades, I found there had 
been much more cost bestowed than either the dead man, or 
indeed Death it self could deserve. There was a mighty train 
of black assistants, among which too divers Princes in the 
persons of their Ambassadors (being infinitelv afflided for the 
loss of their Brother) were pleased to attena; the Herse was 
Magnificent, the Idol Crowned, and (not to mention all other 
Ceremonies which are practised at Royal interments, and 
therefore by no means could be omitted here) the vast 
multitude of Spectators made up, as it uses to do, no small 
part of the Speftacle it self. But yet I know not how, the 
whole was so managed, that, methoughts, it somewhat repre- 
sented the life of him for whom it was made ; Much noise, 
much tumult, much expence, much magnificence, much vain- 
glory; briefly, a great show, and yet after all this, but an 
ill sight. At last, (for it seemed long to me, and like hit short 


Reign too, ve^ tedious) the whole Scene past by, and I retired 
back to my Chamber, weary, and I think more melancholy 
than any of the Mourners. Where I began to refleft on the 
whole life of this Prodigious Man, and sometimes I was filled 
with horror and detestation of his actions, and sometimes I 
inclined a little to reverence and admiration of his courage, 
conduct and success ; till by these different motions and agita- 
tions of mind, rocked, as it were, a sleep, I fell at last into this 
Vision, or if you please to call it but a Dream, I shall not take 
it ill, because the Father of Poets tells us. Even Dreams too 
are firom God. 

But sure it was no Dream ; for I was suddenlv transported 
afar off (whether in the body, or out of the body, like St. Paul, 
I know not) and found my self on the top of that famous Hill 
in the Island Mona^ which has the prospe6l of three Great, 
and Not-long-since most happy Kingdoms. As soon as ever I 
lookt on them, the Not-long-since strook upon my Memory, 
and called forth the sad representation of all the oins, and all 
the Miseries that had overwhelmed them these twenty years. 
And I wept bitterly for two or three hours, and when my 
present stock of moisture was all wasted, I fell a sighing for 
an hour more, and as soon as I recovered from my passion the 
use of speech and reason, I broke forth, as I remember (looking 
upon England) into this complaint. 


Ah, happy Isle, how art thou chang'd and curst. 
Since I was born, and knew thee first ! 

When Peace, which had forsook the World around, 

(Frighted with noise, and the shrill Trumpets sound) 
Thee for a private place of rest. 
And a secure retirement chose 
Wherein to build her Halcyon Nest; 

No wind durst stir abroad the Air to discompose. 


When all the riches of the Globe beside 

Flow*d in to Thee with every Tide; 
When all that Nature did thy Soil deny. 
The Growth was of thy fruitfidl Industry, 



When all the proud and dreadful] Sea, 
And all his Tributary-streams, 
A constant Tribute paid to Thee. 
When all the liquid World was one extended Thames. 


When Plenty in each Village did appear, 
And jBounty was it's Steward there; 

When Gold walkt free about in open view. 

Ere it one Conquering parties Prisoner grew; 
When the Religion of our State 
Had Face and Substance with her Voice, 
Ere she by 'er foolish Loves of late, 

Like Eccho (once a Nymph) turn'd onely into Noise. 


When Men to Men respeft and friendship bore, 
And God with Reverence did adore; 

When upon Earth no Kingdom could have shown 

A happier Monarch to us than our own, 
And yet his Subje6ls by him were 
(Which is a Truth will hardly be 
Receiv'd by any vulgar Ear, 

A secret known to few) made happiV ev'n than He. 


Thou doest a Chaosy and Confusion now, 

A Bahe/y and a Bedlam grow, 
And like a Frantick person thou doest tear 
The Ornaments and Cloaths which thou shouldst wear. 

And cut thy Limbs; and if we see 

(Just as thy Barbarous Britons did) 

Thy Body with Hypocrisie 
Painted all o're, thou think'st. Thy naked shame is hid. 


The Nations, which envied thee erewhile, 
Now laugh (too little 'tis to smile) 
They laugh, and would have pitty'd thee (alas!) 
But that thy Faults all Pity do surpass. 



Art thou the Country which didst hate, 
And mock the French Inconstancy? 
And have we, have we seen of late 
Less change of Habits there, than Governments in Thee ? 


Unhappy Isle! No ship of thine at Sea, 

Was ever tost and torn like thee. 
Tliy naked Hulk loose on the Waves does beat, 
The Rocks and Banks around her ruin threat; 

What did thy foolish Pilots ail, 

To lay the Compass quite aside? 

Without a Law or Rule to sail, 
And rather take the winds, then Heavens to be their Guide ? 


Yet, mighty God, yet, yet, we humbly crave. 
This floating Isle from shipwrack save; 

And though to wash that Bloud which does it stain. 

It well deserves to sink into the Main; 
Yet for the Royal Martyr's prayer 
(The Royal Martyr pray's we know) 
This guilty, perishing Vessel spare ; 

Hear but his Soul above, and not his bloud below. 

I think, I should have gone on, but that I was interrupted 
by a strange and terrible Apparition, for there appeared to me 
(arising out of the earth, as I conceived) the figure of a man 
taller than a Gyant, or indeed, than the shadow of any Gyant 
in the evening. His body was naked, but that nakedness 
adom'd, or rather deform 'd all over, with several figures, after 
the manner of the antient Britons^ painted upon it: and I 
perceived that most of them were the representation of the late 
battels in our civil Wars, and (if I be not much mistaken) it 
was the battle of Naseby that was drawn upon his Breast. His 
Eyes were like burning Brass, and there were three Crowns of 
the same metal (as I guest) and that lookt as red-hot too, upon 
his head. He held in his right hand a Sword that was yet 
bloody, and never the less the Motto of it was Pax quaritur 
belby and in his left hand a thick Book, upon the back of 



which was written in Letters of Gold, A&Sy Ordinances^ 
Protestations, Covenants, Engagements, Declarations, Remon- 
strances, &c. Though this suddain, imusual, and dreadful 
objedt might have quelled a greater courage than mine, yet so 
it pleased God (for there is nothing bolder then a man in a 
Vision) that I was not at all daunted, but askt him resolutely 
and briefly. What art thou ? And he said, I am called The 
North-west Principality, His Highness, the Protestor of the 
Common-wealth of Englandy Scotland and Inland^ and the 
Dominions belonging thereunto, for I am that Angell, to 
whom the Almighty has committed the Government of those 
three Kingdoms which thou seest from this place. And I 
answered and said, If it be so, Sir, it seems to me that for 
almost these twenty years past, your highness has been absent 
from your charge : for not only if any Angel, but if any wise 
and honest M[a]n had since that time been our Govemour, we 
should not have wandred thus long in these laborious and 
endless Labyrinths of confusion, but either not have entered at 
all into them, or at least have returned back ere we had 
absolutely lost our way ; but in stead of your Highness, we 
have had since such a Protestor as was his Predecessor Richard 
the Third to the King his Nephew ; for he presently slew the 
Common-wealth, which he pretended to proteft, and set up- 
himself in the place of it: a little less guilty indeed in one 
respedt, because the other slew an Innocent, [and] this Man 
did but murder a Murderer. Such a Protedtor we have had 
as we would have been glad to have changed for any Enemy, 
and rather received a constant Turk, than this every monetns 
Apostate ; such a Protedor as Man is to his Flocks, which he 
sheers, and sells, or devours himself; and I would b\n know, 
what the Wolf, which he protects him from, could do more. 
Such a Protedlor — and as I was proceeding, me-thoughts, his 
Highness began to put on a displeased and threatnine counte- 
nance, as men use to do when their dearest Friends nappen to 
be traduced in their company, which gave me the first rise of 
jealousy against him, for I did not believe that Cromwel among 
all his forein Correspondences had ever held any with Angels. 
However, I was not hardned enough yet to venture a quarrel 
with him then \ and therefore (as if I had spoken to the 
Protedtor himself in White-hall) I desired him that his Highness 



nuld please to pardon me, if I had unwittingly spolccn any 
thing to the disparagement of a person, whose relations to his 
Highness 1 had not the honour to Itnow. At which he told 
me, that he had no other concernment for his late Highness^ 
than as he took him to be the greatest man that ever was of the 
Ensllsir Nation, if not (said he) of the whole World, which 
gives me a just title to the defence of his reputation, since I 
now account my self, as it were a naturalized Eng/ish Angel, 
by having had so long the management of the affairs of that 
Country, And pray Countryman, (said he, very kindly and 
very flatteringly) for I would not have you fall into the general 
errouf of the World, that detests and decryes so extraordinary a 
Virtue, what can be more extraordinary than that a person of 
mean birth, no fortune, no eminent qualities of Body, which 
have sometimes, or of Mind, which have often raised men to 
the highest dignities, should have the courage to attempt, and 
the happiness to succeed in so improbable a design, as the 
destruction of one of the most antient, and most solidly founded 
Monarchies upon the Earth: that he should have the power or 
boldness to put his Prince and Master to an open and infamous 
death? to banish that numerous, aiid strongly-allied Family? 
to do all this under the name and wages of a Parliament; to 
trample upon them too as he plea^d, and spurn them out of 
dores when he grew weary of them ; to raise up a new and 
un-heard of Monster out of their A<;hes ; to stifle that in the 
infancy, and set up himself above all things that ever were 

very i 

called Sovereign in England- to oppress all his Enemies by 
Armes, and all his Friends afterwards by Artifice ; to serve ul 
parties patiently for a while, and to command them vi^oriously 
at last ; to over-run each corner of the three Nations, and 
overcome with equal facility both the riches of the South, and 
the poverty of the North ; to be feared and courted by all 
forein Princes, and adopted a Brother to the gods of the earth ; 
to call together Parliaments with a word of his Pen, and scatter 
them again with the Breath of his Mouth j to be humbly and 
daily petitioned chat he would please to be hired at the rate of 
two millions a year, to be the Master of those who had hired 
him before to be their Servant ; to have the Estates and Lives 
^f three Kingdomes as much at his disposal, as was the little 
: of his Father, and to be as noble and liberal in the 



spending of them ; and lastly (for there is no end of all the 
particulars of his glory) to bequeath all this with one word to 
his Posterity ; to die with peace at home, and triumph abroad; 
to be buried among Kings, and with more than R^al solemnity; 
and to leave a name behind him, not to be extinguisht, but with 
the whole World, which as it is now too little for his praises^ so 
might have been too for his Conquests, if the short line of his 
Humane Life could have been stretcht out to the extent of his 
immortal designs ? 

By this speech I began to understand perfefily well what 
kind of Angel his pretended Highness was, and having fortified 
my self privately with a short mental Prayer, and with the sign 
of the Cross (not out of any superstition to the sign, but is a 
recognition of my Baptism in Christ) I grew a little bddcr, 
and replyed in this manner; I should not venture to oppose 
what you are pleased to say in commendation of the late great, 
and (I confess) extraordinary person, but that I remember 
Christ forbids us to give assent to any other doctrine but what 
himself has taught us, even though it should be delivered by an 
Angel ; and if such you be, Sir, it may be you have spoken all 
this rather to try than to tempt my frailty : For sure I am, that 
we must renounce or forget sill the Laws of the New and Old 
Testament, and those which are the foundation of both, even 
the Laws of Moral and Natural Honesty, if we approve of the 
actions of that man whom I suppose you commend by Irony* 
There would be no end to instance in the particulars of all his 
wickedness ; but to sum up a part of it briefly ; What can be 
more extraordinarily wicked, than for a person, such as your 
self, qualifie him rightly, to endeavour not only to exalt himself 
above, but to trample upon all his equals and betters? to 
pretend freedom for all men, and under the help of that 
pretence to make all men his servants ? to take Armes against 
Taxes of scarce two hundred thousand pounds a year, and to 
raise them himself to above two Millions ? to quarrel for the 
losse of three or four Eares, and strike off three or four hundred 
Heads ? to fight against an imaginary suspition of I know not 
what, two thousand Guards to be fetcht for the King, I know 
not from whence, and to keep up for himself no less than fourty 
thousand ? to pretend the defence of Parliaments, and violently 
to dissolve all even of his own calling, and almost choosing ? to 



rundertalce the Reformation of Religion, to rob it even to the 
very skin, and then to expose it naked to the rage of a!l Se£lB 
and Heresies ? to set up Counsels of Rapine, and Courts of 
Murder > to light against the King under a commission for 
him ; to take him forceably out of the hands of those for 
whom he had conquered him ; to draw him into his Net, with 
protestations and vows of 6de!ity, and when he had caught him 
in it, to butcher him, with as little shame, as Conscience, or 
Humanity, in the open face of the whole World ? to receive a 
Commission for King and Parliament, to murder {as I said) the 
one, and destroy no less impudently the other ? to fight against 
Monarchy when he declared for it, and declare against it when 
be contrived for it in his own person i to abase perfideously and 
supplant ingratefiilly his own General first, and afterwards most 
of those Officers, who with the loss of their Honour, and hazard 
of their Souls, had lifted him up to the top of his unreasonable 
ambitions? to break his laith with all Enemies, and with all 
friends equally? and to make no less frequent use of the most 
solemn Perjuries than the looser sort of People do of customary 
Oaths ? to usurp three Kingdoms without any shadow of the 
least pretensions, and to govern them as unjustly as he gat 
them ? to set himself up as an Idol <wh)ch we know as St. Paul 
aayes, in it self is nothing) and make the very streets of Lcndan^ 
like the Valley of Hinniin, by burning the bowels of men as 
a sacrifice to his Molech-ihip} to seek to entail this usurpation 
upon his Posterity, and with it an endless War upon the 
Nation ? And lastly, by the severest Judgment of Almighty 
God, to dye hardned, and mad, and unrepentant, with the 
curses of the present Age, and the detestation of all to succeed. 

Though I had much more to say (for the Life of man is so 
short, that it allows not time enough to speak against a Tyrant) 
yet because I had a mind to hear how my strange Adversary 
would behave himself upon this subjeft, and to give even the 
Devil (as they say) his right, and fair play in a Disputation, I 
ttopt here, and expefted {not without the frailty of a little fear) 
that he should have broke into a violent passion in behalf of his 
Favourite ; but he on the contrary very calmly, and with the 
Dove-like innoccncy of a Serpent that was not yet warm'd 
enough to sting, thus replyed to me ; 

It is not so much out of my affection to that person whom 



we discourse of (whose greatness is too solid to be shaken hj 
the breath of any Oratory) as for your own sake (honest 
Countryman) whom I conceive to err, rather by mistake than 
out of malice, that I shall endeavour to reform your uncharitable 
and unjust opinion. And in the first place I must needs put 
you in mind of a Sentence of the most antient of the Heathen 
Divines, that you men are acquainted withaU, 

ovx [oaiff] KTafUvouTiv hr dpSpcunv eirxj^aa/frBiUy 

Tis wicked with insulting feet to tread 
Upon the Monuments of the Dead. 

And the intention of the reproof there, is no less proper for 
this Subjedt ; for it is spoken to a person who was proud and 
insolent against those dead men to whom he had been humble 
and obedient whilst they lived. Your Highness may jdease 
(said I) to add the Verse that follows, as no less proper for this 

Whom God's just doom and their own sins have sent 
Already to their punishment. 

But I take this to be the rule in the case, that when we fix 
any infamy upon deceased persons, it should not be done out of 
hatred to the Dead, but out of love and charity to the Living, 
that the curses which onely remain in mens thoughts, and dare 
not come forth against Tyrants (because they are Tyrants) 
whilst they are so, may at least be for ever setled and engraven 
upon their Memories, to deterr all others from the like wicked- 
ness, which else in the time of their foolish prosperity, the 
flattery of their own hearts, and of other mens Tongues, would 
not suffer them to perceive. Ambition is so subtil a Tempter, 
and the corruption of humane nature so susceptible of the 
temptation, that a man can hardly resist it, be he never so 
much forewarned of the evil consequences, much less if he find 
not onely the concurrence of the present, but the approbation 
too of following ages, which have the liberty to judge more 
freely. The mischief of Tyranny is too great, even in the 
shortest time that it can continue ; it is endless and insupport- 
able, if the Example be to reign too, and if a Lambert must be 
invited to follow the steps of a Cromwell as well by the voice 



of Honour, as by the sight of power and riches. Though it 
may seem to some fiuitastically, yet was it wisely done of the 
SyracusianSy to implead with the forms of their ordinary justice, 
to condemn, and destroy even the Statues of all their Tyrants ; 
If it were possible to cut them out of all History, and to 
extinguish their very names, I am of opinion that it ought to 
be done; but since they have left behind them too deep 
wounds to be ever closed up without a Scar, at least let us set 
such a Mark upon their memory, that men of the same wicked 
inclinations may be no less affrighted with their lasting 
Ignominy, than enticed by their momentary glories. And that 
your Highness may perceive that I speak not all this out of any 
private animosity against the person of the late ProUSfoTy I 
assure you upon my faith, that I bear no more hatred to his 
name, than I do to that of Marius or Sylloy who never did me 
or any friend of mine the least injury; and with that trans- 
portea by a holy fury, I fell into this sudden rapture. 


Curst be the Man (what do I wish ? as though 

The wretch already were not so; 
But curst on let him be) who thinks it brave 

And great, his Countrey to enslave. 

Who seeks to overpoise alone 

The Balance of a Nation ; 

Against the whole but naked State, 
Who in his own light Scale makes up with Arms the weight. 


Who of his Nation loves to be the first. 
Though at the rate of being worst. 

Who would be rather a great Monster, than 
A well-proportion*d Man. 
The Son of Earth with hundred hands 
Upon his three-pil'd Mountain stands. 
Till Thunder strikes him from the sky; 

The Son of Earth again in hi$ Earths womb does lie. 




What Bloudy Confusion, Ruine, to obtain 
A short and miserable Reign ? 

In what obh'que and humble creeping wise 
Does the mischievous Serpent rise? 
But even his forked Tongue strikes dead. 
When h'as rear'd up his wicked Head, 
He murders with his mortal frown, 

A Basilisk he grows if once he get a Crown. 


But no Guards can oppose assaulting EUtrs, 
Or undermining Tears. 

No more than doors, or close-drawn Curtains keep 
The swarming Dreams out when we sleep. 
That bloudy Conscience too of his 
(For, oh, a Rebel Red-Coat 'tis) 
Does here his early Hell begin. 

He sees his Slaves without, his Tyrant feels within. 


Let, Gracious God, let never more thine hand 

Lift up this rod against our Land. 
A Tyrant is a Rod and Serpent too, 

And brings worse Plagues than Egypt knew. 

What Rivers stain'd with blood have been? 

What Storm and Hail-shot have we seen ? 

What Sores deform'd the Ulcerous State ? 
What darkness to be felt has buried us of late ? 


How has it snatcht our Flocks and Herds away ? 
And made even of our Sons a prey ? 

What croaking Sedts and Vermin has it sent 
The restless Nation to torment ? 
What greedy Troups, what armed power 
Of Flies and Locusts to devour 
The Land which every where thcjr fill ? 

Nor flie they. Lord, away; no, they devour it still. 



Come the eleventh Pi^uc, rather than this should be; 

Come sinlc us rather in the Sea. 
Come rather Pestilence and reap us down ; 

Come Gods sword rather than our own. 

Let rather Raman come again. 

Or Saxon, Norman, or the Dane, 

In all the bonds we ever bore. 
We griev'd, we sigh'd, we wept j wc never blusht before, 

If by our sins the Divine Justice be 
Call'd to this last extremity, 

Let some denouncing Janai firet be sent, 
To try if England can repent. 
Methinks at least some Prodigy, 
Some dreadful Comet from on high. 
Should terribly forewarn the Earth, 

As of good Princes Deaths, so of a Tyrants birth. 

Here the spirit of Vi 

e begin 


little to fait, I stopt, and 

his Highness smiling, said, I was glad to see you engaged in the 
Enclosures of Mteter, for if you hat! staid in the open plain of 
Declaiming against the word Tyrant, I must have had patience 
for half a dozen hours, till you had tired your self as well as 
me. But pray, Countrey-man, (o avoid this sciomachy, or 
imaginary Combat with words, let me know sir, what you 
mean by the name of Tyrant, for I remember that among 
your ancient Authors, not only all Kings, but even yup'tltr 
himself (your Juvans Pater) is so termed, and perhaps as it 
was used formerly In a good sence, so we shall find it upon 
better consideration to be still a good thing for the benefit and 
peace of mankind, at least it will appear whether your inter- 
pretation of it may be justly applied to the person who is now 
the subjefl of our Discourse. I call him (said I) a Tyrant, 
who either intrudes himself forcibly into the Government of 
his fellow Citizens without any legal Authority over them, or 
ffho having a just Title to the Government of a people, abuses 
' ; to the destruflion, or tormenting of them. So that all 
■Tyrants axe at the same time Usurpers, either of the whole or 
^ 35a 


at least of a part of that power which they assume to themselves, 
and no less are they to be accounted Rebels, since no man can 
usurp Authority over others, but by rebelling against them who 
had it before, or at least against those Laws which were his 
Superiors ; and in all these sences no History can afibrd us a 
more evident example of Tyranny, or more out of all possibility 
of excuse, or palliation, than that of the person whom you are 
pleased to defend, whether we consider his reiterated rebellions 
against all his Superiors, or his usurpation of the Supream 
power to himself, or his Tyranny in the exercise of it ; and if 
lawful Princes have been esteemed Tyrants by not containing 
themselves within the bounds of those Laws which have been 
left them as the sphere of their Authority by their fore-fathers, 
what shall we say of that man, who having by right no power 
at all in this Nation, could not content himself with that which 
had satisfied the most ambitious of our Princes ? nay, not with 
those vastly extended limits of Soverainty, which he (disdaining 
all that had been prescribed and observed before) was pleased 
(but of great modesty) to set to himself? not abstaining from 
Rebellion and Usurpation even against his own Laws as well 
as those of the Nation ? 

Hold friend (said his Highness, pulling me by my Arm) for 
I see your zeal is transporting you again ; whether the Protcftor 
were a Tyrant in the exorbitant exercise of his power we shall 
see anon, it is requisite to examine first whether he were so in 
the usurpation of it. And I say, that not only He, but no man 
else ever was, or can be so ; and that for these reasons. First, 
Because all power belongs only to God, who is the source and 
fountain of it, as Kings are of all Honours in their Dominions. 
Princes are but his Viceroys in the little Provinces of this 
World, and to some he gives their places for a few years, to 
some for their lives, and to others (upon ends or deserts best 
known to himself, or meerly for his undisputable good pleasure) 
he bestows as it were Leases upon them, and their posterity, 
for such a date of time as is prefixt in that Patent of their 
Destiny, which is not legible to you men below. Neither is it 
more unlawful for Oliver to succeed Charles in the Kingdom 
of England^ when God so disposes of it, than it had been for 
him to have succeeded the Lord Strafford in the Lieutenancjr 
of Inland^ if he had been appointed to it by the King then 



'feigning. Men arc in both the cases obliged to obey him 
whom they see aflually invested with the Authority by that 
Sovereign from whom he ought to derive it, without disputing 
or examining the causes, either of the removal of the one, or 
the preferment of the other. Secondly, because all power is 
attained either by the Eleftion and Consent of the people, and 
that takes away your objeftion of forcible intrusion ; or else by 
a Conquest of them, and that gives such a legal Authority as 
you mention to be wanting in the usurpation of a Tyrant; so 
that either this Title is right, and then there are no Usurpers, 
or else it is a wrong one, and then there are none else but 
Usurpers, if you examine the Original pretences of the Princes 
of the World. Thirdly, (which quitting the dispute in general, 
is a particular justification of his Highness) the Government of 
England was totally broken and dissolved, and extinguisht by 
the confusions of a Civil War, so that his Highness could not 
be accused to have possest himself violently of the anticnt 
building of the Common- wealth, but to have prudently and 
peaceably built up a new one out of the ruines and ashes of 
the former ; and he who after a deplorable sbipwrack can with 
extraordinary Industry gather together the disperst and broken 
planks and pieces of it, and with no less wonderful Art and 
Felicity so rejoyn them as to make a new Vessel more tight 
and beautiful than the old one, deserves, no doubt, to have the 
command of her {even as his Highness had) by the desire of 
the Seamen and Passengers themselves. And do but consider 
Lastly (for I omit a multitude of weighty things that might 
be spoken upon this noble argument) do but consider seriously 
and impartially with your self, what admirable parts of wit and 
prudence, what indefatigable diligence and invincible courage 
must of necessity have concurred in the person of that man 
who from so contemptible beginnings (as I observed before) 
and through so many thousand difficulties, was able not only 
to make himself the greatest and most absolute Monarch of 
this Nation, but to add to it the entire Conquest of Ireland and 
Scotland (which the whole force of the World joyned with the 
Reman virtue could never attain to) and to Crown all this with 
illustrious and Heroical undertakings, and successes upon all 
our foreign Enemies ; do but (I say again) consider this, and 
you will confess, that his prodigious merits were a better Title 
Z2 1fi,% 


to Imperial Dignity, than the bloud of an hundred Royal 
Progenitors; and will rather lament that he lived not to 
overcome more Nations, than envy him the Conquest and 
Dominion of these. Who ever you are (said I, my indignation 
making me somewhat bolder) your discourse (methmks) becomes 
as little the person of a Tutelar Angel, as Cromweb actions did 
that of a Protedlor. It is upon these Principles, that all the 
great Crimes of the world have been committed, and most 
particularly those which I have had the misfortune to see in 
my own time, and in my own Countrey. If these be to be 
allowed, we must break up humane society, retire into the 
Woods, and equally there stand upon our Guards against our 
Brethren Mankind, and our Rebels the Wild Beasts. For if 
there can be no Usurpation upon the rights of a whole Nation, 
there can be none most certainly upon those of a private 
person ; and if the robbers of Countreys be Gods Vice-gerents, 
there is no doubt but the Thieves and Bandito*s, and Murderers, 
are his under Officers. It is true which you say, that God is 
the [source] and fountain of all power, and it is no less true that 
he is the Creator of Serpents as well as Angels ; nor does his 
goodness fail of its ends even in the malice of his own Creatures. 
What power he suffers the Devil to exercise in this world, is 
too apparent by our daily experience, and by nothing more 
than the late monstrous iniquities which you dispute for, and 
patronize in England ; but would you inferr from thence, that 
the power of the Devil is a just and lawful one, and that all 
men ought, as well as most men do, obey him ? God is the 
fountain of all powers; but some flow from the right hand 
(as it were) of his Goodness, and others from the left hand of 
his Justice; and the World, like an Island between these two 
Rivers, is sometimes refresh [t] and nourisht by the one, and 
sometimes overrun and ruined by the other ; and (to continue 
a little farther the Allegory) we are never overwhelmed with 
the latter, till either by our malice or negligence we have stopt 
and damm'd up the former. But to come a little closer to your 
argument, or rather the Image of an Argument, your similitude; 
If Cromwell had come to command in Ireland in the place of 
the late Lord Strafford^ I should have yielded obedience, not 
for the equipage, and the strength, and the guards which he 
brought with him, but for the Commission which he should 



6ret have shewed me from our common Sovereign that sent 
him ; and if he could have done that from God Almighty, 
I would have obeyed him too in England j but that he was ki 
far from being able to do, that on the contrary, I read nothing 
but commands, and even publick Proclamations from God 
Almighty, not to admit him. Your second Argument is, that 
he had the same right for his Authority, that is the foundation 
of all others even the right of Conquest. Are we then so 
unhappy as to be conquered by the person, whom we hired at 
a daily rate, like a labourer, to conquer others for us ^ did we 
furnish him with Arms, onely to draw and try upon our 
Enemies (as we, it seems, falsely thought them) and keep them 
for ever sheath'd in the bowels of his Friends? did wc fight for 
Liberty against our Prince, that we might become Slaves to our 
Servant ? this is such an impudent pretence, as neither He nor 
any of his flatterers for him had ever the face to mention. 
Though it can hardly be spoken or thought of without passion, 
yet I shall, if you please, argue it more calmly than the case 
deserves. The right certainly of Conquest can only be exercised 
upon those against whom the War is declared, and the Viflory 
obtained. So that no whole Nation can be said to be conquered 
but by foreign force. In all Civil wars men arc so far from 
stating the quarrel against their Countrey, that they do it only 
against a person or party which they really believe, or at least 
pretend to be pernicious to it, neither can there be any just 
cause for the destruiftion of a part of the body, but when it is 
done for the preservation and safety of the whole. 'Tis our 
Countrey that raises men in the quarrel, our Countrey that 
■ urns, our Countrey that pays them, our Countrey that 
BBthoriscs the undertaking, and by that distinguishes it from 
Kypine and murder ; Lastly, 'tis our Countrey that directs and 
pCommands the Army, and is indeed their General. So that to 
say in Civil Wars that the prevailing party conquers their 
Countrey, is to say, the Countrey conquers it self And if the 
General only of that party be the Conquerour, the Army by 
which he is made so, is no less conquered than the Army 
which is beaten, and have as little reason to triumph in that 
Victory, by which they lose both their Honour and Liberty. 
So that if Cramwel conquer'd any party, it was only that 
pinst which he was sent, and wJiat that was, must appear 



by his Commission. It was (says that) against a company of 
evil Counsellors, and disafiedled persons, who kept the King 
from a good intelligence and conjundlion with his People. 
It was not then against the People. It is so far from being 
so, that even of that party which was beaten, the Conquest 
did not belong to Cromwel but to the Parliament which 
employed him in their Service, or rather indeed to the King 
and Parliament, for whose Service, (if there had been any fiuth 
in mens vows and protestations) the Wars were undertaken. 
Merciful God ! did the right of this miserable Conquest remain 
then in His Majesty, and didst thou suffer him to be destroyed 
with more barbarity than if he had been conquered even by 
Savages and Cannibals i was it for King and Parliament that 
we fought, and has it fared with them just as with the Army 
which we fought against, the one part being slain, and the 
other fled ? It appears therefore plainly, that Cromwel was not 
a Conqueror, but a Thief and Robber of the Rights of the 
King and Parliament, and an Usurper upon those^ of the 
People. I do not here deny Conquest to be sometimes (though 
it be very rarely) a true title, but I deny this to be a true 
Conquest. Sure I am, that the race of our Princes came not 
in by such a one. One Nation may conquer another some- 
times justly, and if it be unjustly, yet still it is a true Conquest, 
and they are to answer for the injustice only to God Almighty 
(having nothing else in authority above them) and not as 
particular Rebels to their Countrey, which is, and ought 
always to be their Superior and their Lord. If perhaps we 
find Usurpation in stead of Conquest in the Original Titles 
of some Royal Families abroad (as no doubt there have been 
many Usurpers before ours, though none in so impudent and 
execrable a manner) all I can say for them is, that their Title 
was very weak, till by length of time, and the death of all 
juster pretenders, it became to be the true, because it was the 
onely one. Your third defence of his Highness (as your 
Highness pleases to call him) enters in most seasonably after 
his pretence of Conquest, for then a man may say any thing. 
The Government was broken ; Who broke it ? It was dis- 
solved ; Who dissolved it ? It was extineuisht ; Who was it 
but Cromwell^ who not onely put out the Light, but cast away 
even the very snufF of it ? As if a man should murder a whole 



Familjr, and then possesse himself of the House, because 'tis 
better that He, than that onely Rats should live there. Jesus 
God ! (said I, and at that word I perceived my pretended Angel 
to give a start and trembled, but I took no notice of it, and 
went on) this were a wicked pretension even though the whole 
Family were destroyed, but the Heirs (blessed be God) are yet 
surviving, and likely to out-live all Heirs of their dispossessors, 
besides their Inhmy. Rode Caper vitem, &c. There will be 
yet wine enough left for the Sacrifice of those wild Beasts that 
have made so much spoil in the Vineyard. But did Cromwell 
think, like Nero^ to set the City on fire, onely that he might 
have the honour of being founder of a new and more beautiful 
one? He could not have such a shadow of Virtue in his 
wickedness; he meant onely to rob more securely and more 
richly in midst of the combustion ; he little thought then that 
he should ever have been able to make himself Master of the 
Palace, as well as plunder the Goods of the Common-wealth. 
He was glad to see the publick Vessel (the Sovereign of the 
Seas) in as desperate a condition as his own little Canon, and 
thought onely with some scattered planks of that great ship- 
wrack to make a better Fisherboat for himself. But when 
he saw that by the drowning of the Master (whom he himself 
treacherously knockt on the head as he was swimming for his 
life) by the flight and dispersion of others, and cowardly 
patience of the remaining company, that all was abandoned to 
his pleasure, with the old Hulk and new mis-shapen and 
disagreeing pieces of his own, he made up with much adoe 
that Piratical Vessel which we have seen him command, and 
which, how tight indeed it was, may best be judged by it's 
perpetual Leaking. First then (much more wicked than those 
foolish daughters in the Fable, who cut their old Father into 
pieces, in hope by charms and witchcraft to make him young 
and lusty again) this man endeavoured to destroy the Building, 
before he could imagine in what manner, with what materials, 
by what workmen, or what Architedl it was to be rebuilt. 
Secondly, if he had dreamt himself to be able to revive that 
body which he had killed, yet it had been but the insupportable 
insolence of an ignorant Mountebanck ; And Thirdly (which 
concerns us nearest) that very new thing which he made out 
of the ruines of the old, is no more like the Original, either for 

3 59 


beauty, use, or duration, than an artificial Plant raised bv the 
fire of a Chymist is comparable to the true and natural one 
which he first burnt, that out of the ashes of it he might 
produce an imperfedl similitude of his own making. Your last 
argument is such (when reduced to Syllogism) that the Major 
Proposition of it would make strange work in the World, if it 
were received for truth ; to wit, that he who has the best parts 
in a Nation, has the right of being King over it. We had 
enough to do here of old with the contention between two 
branches of the same Family, what would become of us when 
every man in England should lay his claim to the Government ? 
and truely if Cromwell should have commenced his plea when 
he seems to have begun his ambition, there were few persons 
besides that might not at the same time have put in theirs toa 
But his Deserts I suppose you will date from the same terme 
that I do his great Demerits, that is, from the beginning of our 
late calamities, (for, as for his private feults before, I can onely 
wish (and that with as much Charity to him as to the pubhck) 
that he had continued in them till his death, rather than 
changed them for those of his latter dayes) and therefore we 
must begin the consideration of his greatness from the unlucky 
^ra of our own misfortunes, which puts me in mind of what 
was said less truely of Pompey the Great, Nostra Miseria 
Magnus es. But because the general ground of your argu- 
mentation consists in this, that all men who are the efFedters 
of extraordinary mutations in the world, must needs have 
extraordinary forces of Nature by which they are enabled to 
turn about, as they please, so great a Wheel ; I shall speak 
first a few words upon this universal proposition, which seems 
so reasonable, and is so popular, before I descend to the 
particular examination of the eminences of that person which 
is in question. 

I have often observed (with all submission and resignation 
of spirit to the inscrutable mysteries of Eternal Providence) 
that when the fulness and maturity of time is come that 
produces the great confusions and changes in the World, it 
usually pleases God to make it appear by the manner of them, 
that they are not the efFefts of humane force or policy, but of 
the Divine Justice and Predestination, and though we see a 
Man, like that which we call Jack of the Clock-house, striking, 



as it were, the Hour of that fulness of time, yet our reason 
must needs be convinced, that his hand is moved by some 
secret, and to us who stand without, invisible diredlion. And 
the stream of the Current is then so violent, that the strongest 
men in the World cannot draw up against it, and none are 
so weak, but they may sail down with it. These are the 
Spring-Tides of publick affairs which we see often happen, 
but seek in vain to discover any certain causes, 

Omnia Jluminis ^*'- ^^' 

3" ^9' 

Ritu ftruntury nunc medio aheo 
Cum pace delabentis Hetruscum 
In mare^ nunc lapides adesos 

Stirpesque raptas^ & pecus & domos 
f^o/ventis una^ non sine montium 
Clamore^ vicimtque silvre^ 
Cum fera Diluvies quietos 

Irritat amneSj 

and one man then, by malitiously opening all the Sluces that 
he can come at, can never be the sole Author of all this 
(though he may be as guilty as if really he were, by intending 
and imagining to be so) but it is G<>d that breaks up the 
Flood-Gates of so general a Deluge, and all the art then and 
industry of mankind is not sufficient to raise up Dikes and 
Ramparts against it. In such a time it was as this, that not 
aU the wisdom and power of the Roman Senate, nor the wit 
and eloquence of Cicero^ nor the Courage and Virtue of Brutus 
was able to defend their Country or themselves against the 
unexperienced rashness of a beardless Boy, and the loose rage 
of a voluptuous Madman. The valour and prudent Coimsels 
on the one side are made fruitless, and the errours and cowardize 
on the other ha[r]mless, by unexpefted accidents. The one 
General saves his life, and gains the whole World, by a very 
dream; and the other loses both at once by a little mistake 
of the shortness of his sight. And though this be not alwaies 
so, for we see that in the translation of the great Monarchies 
from one to another, it pleased God to make choice of the 
most Eminent men in Nature, as CyruSy Alexander^ Scipio and 
his contemporaries, for his chief instruments and adtors in so 
admirable a work (the end of this being not only to destroy 



or punish one Nation, which may be done by the worst of 
mankind, but to exalt and bless another, which is only to be 
efiedted by great and virtuous persons) yet when God only 
intends the temporary chastisement of a people, he does not 
raise up his servant Cyrus (as he himself is pleased to call him) 
or an Alexander (who had as many virtues to do good, as vices 
to do harm) but he makes the MassanelloeSy and the yohns of 
Leyden the instruments of his vengeance, that the power of 
the Almighty might be more evident by the weakness of the 
means which he chooses to demonstrate it. He did not 
assemble the Serpents and the Monsters of Afrique to corred 
the pride of the Egyptians^ but called for his Armies of Locusts 
out of /Ethiopia, and formed new ones of Vermine out of the 
very dust; and because you see a whole Country destroyed 
by these, will you argue from thence they must needs have 
had both the craft of the Foxes, and the courage of Lions? 
It is easie to apply this general observation to the particular 
case of our troubles in England, and that they seem only to 
be meant for a temporary chastisement of our sins, and not 
for a total abolishment of the old, and introdudlion of a new 
Government, appears probabl[e] to me from these considerations, 
as far as we may be bold to make a judgment of the will of 
God in future events. First, because he has suffered nothing 
to settle or take root in the place of that which hath been so 
unwisely and unjustly removed, that none of these untempered 
Mortars can hold out against the next blast of Wind, nor any 
stone stick to a stone, till that which these Foolish Builden 
have refused, be made again the Head of the Corner. For 
when the indisposed and long tormented Commonwealth has 
wearied and spent it self almost to nothing with the chargeable, 
various, and dangerous experiments of several Mountebanks, 
it is to be supposed, it will have the wit at last to send for a 
true Physician, especially when it sees (which is the second 
consideration) most evidently (as it now begins to do, and will 
do every day more and more, and might have done perfedly 
long since) that no usurpation (under what name or pretext 
soever) can be kept up without open force, nor force without 
the continuance of those oppressions upon the people, which 
will at last tire out their patience, though it be great even to 
stupidity. They cannot be so dull (when poverty and hunger 



b^ns to whet their understanding) as not to find out this no 
extraordinary mystery, that *tis madness in a Nation to pay 
three Millions a year for the maintaining of their servitude 
under Tyrants, when they might live free for nothing under 
their Princes. This, I say, will not alwayes ly hid, even to the 
slowest capacities, and the next truth they will discover after- 
wards, is, that a whole people can never have the will without 
having at the same time the power to redeem themselves. 
Thirdly, it does not look (me-thinks) as if God had forsaken 
the family of that man, from whom he has raised up five 
Children, of as Eminent virtue, and all other commendable 
qualities, as ever lived perhaps (for so many together, and so 
young) in any other family in the whole world. Especially, 
if we adde hereto this consideration, that by protecting and 
preserving some of them already through as great danger[s] as 
ever were past with safety, either by Prince or private person, 
he has given them already (as we may reasonably hope it to be 
meant) a promise and earnest of his future fevours. And lastly 
(to return closely to the discourse from which I have a little 
digrest) because I see nothing of those excellent parts of nature, 
and mixture of Merit with their Vices in the late disturbers of 
our peace and happiness, that uses to be found in the persons 
of those who are born for the ereftion of new Empires. And 
I confess I finde nothing of that kind, no not any shadow 
(taking away the false light of some prosperity) in the man 
whom you extol for the first example of it. And certainly all 
Virtues being rightly devided into Moral and Intelledtual, I 
know not how we can better judge of the former than by 
mens adtions, or of the latter than by their Writings or 
Speeches. As for these latter (which are least in merit, or 
rather which are only the instruments of mischief where the 
other are wanting) I think you can hardly pick out the name 
of a man who ever was called Great, besides him we are now 
speaking of, who never left the memory behinde him of one 
wise or witty Apothegm even amongst his Domestique Servants 
or greatest Flatterers. That little in print which remains upon 
a sad record for him, is such, as a Satyre against him would not 
have made him say, for fear of transgressing too much the rules 
of Probability, i know not what you can produce for the 
justification of his parts in this kind, but his having been able 



to deceive so many particular persons, and so many whole 
parties ; which if you please to take notice of for the advantage 
of his Intelledtualsy I desire you to allow me the liberty to do 
so too, when I am to speak of his Morals. The truth of the 
thing is this, That if Craft be Wisdom, and Dissimulation Wit, 
(assisted both and improved with Hypocrisies and Perjuries) I 
must not deny him to have been singular in both ; but so gross 
was the manner in which he made use of them, that as 
wise-men ought not to have believed him at first, so no man 
was Fool enough to believe him at last ; neither did any man 
seem to do it, but those who thought they gained as much 
by that dissembling, as he did by his. His very actings of 
Godliness grew at last as ridiculous, as if a Player, by putting 
on a Gown, should think he represented excellently a Woman, 
though his Beard at the same time were seen by aU the 
Spectators. If you ask me why they did not hiss, and explode 
him off the stage, I can only answer, that they durst not do so, 
because the Aitors and the Door-keepers were too strong for 
the Company. I must confess that by these arts (how grosly 
soever managed, as by Hypocritical praying, and silly preaching, 
by unmanly tears and whinings, by falshoods and perjuries 
even Diabolical) he had at first the good fortune (as men call 
it, that is the ill-Fortune) to attain his ends ; but it was because 
his ends were so unreasonable, that no humane reason could 
foresee them ; which made them who had to do with him 
believe that he was rather a well meaning and deluded Bigot, 
than a crafty and malicious Impostor, that these arts were 
helpt by an Indefatigable industry (as you term it) I am so 
far from doubting, that I intended to object that diligence as 
the worst of his Crimes. It makes me almost mad when I 
hear a man commended for his diligence in wickedness. If 
I were his Son, I should wish to God he had been a more lazy 
person, and that we might have found him sleeping at the 
hours when other men are ordinarily waking, rather than 
waking for those ends of his when other men were ordinarily 
asleep ; how diligent the wicked are the Scripture often tell[s] us; 
Their feet run to evill, and they make haste to shed innocent 
bloud, Isa, 59. 7. He travels with iniquity, P$aL 7. 14. He 
deviseth mischief upon his bed, PsaL 34. 4. They search out 
iniquity, they accomplish a diligent search, PsaL 64. 6. and in 



a muJlitude of other places. And would it not seem ridiculous 
to praise a Wolf for his watchfulness, and for his indefatigable 
industry in ranging all night about the Country, whilst the 
sheep, and perhaps the shepherd, and perhaps the very Du^ 
too are all asleep? 

The Chartreux wants the warning of a Bell 

To call him to the duties of his Cell ; 

There needs no noise at all t'awakcn sin, 

Th* Adulterer and the Thief his Larum has within. 
And if the diligence of wicked persons be so much to be 
blamed, as that it is only an Emphasis and Exaggeration of 
their wickedness, I see not how their courage can avoid the 
same censure. If the undertaking bold, and vast, and un- 
reasonable designs can deserve that honourable name, I am 
sure Faux and his fellow Gun-powder Fiends will have cause 
to pretend, though not an equal, yet at least the next place of 
Honour, neither can 1 doubt but if they too had succeeded, 
they would have found their Appiaudci^ and Admirers. It 
was bold unquestionably tor a man in defiance of all Humane 
and Divine Laws (and with so little probability of a long 
-impunity) so publiquely and so outragiously to murder his 
i It was bold with so much insolence and affront to 
md disperse all the chief Partners of his guilt, and 
^Creators of his power ; It was bold to violate so opcnJy and so 
scornfully all Afls and Constitutions of a Nation, and after- 
wards even of his own making ; it was bold to Assume the 
Authority of calling, and bolder yet of breaking so many 
Parliaments; it was bold to trample upon the patience of his 
own, and provoke that of all neighbouring Countrcys ; It was 
bold, I say, above all boldnesses, to Usurp this Tyranny to 
himself, and impudent above all impudences to endeavour to 
transmit it to his posterity. But all this boldness is so IW 
from being a sign of manly courage, (which dares not transgress 
the rules of any other Virtue) that it is only a Demonstration 
of Brutish Madness or Diabolical Possession. In both which 
last cases there uses frequent examples to appear of such 
extraordinary force as may justly seem more wonderful and 

t astonishing than the anions of CrBmwe!, neither is it stranger 
to believe that a whole Nation should not be able to govern 


I scon 


Him and a Mad Army, than that five or six Men should not 
be strong enough to bind a distracted Girl. There is no man 
ever succeeds in one wickedness but it gives him the boldness 
to attempt a greater; 'Twas boldly done of Nero to kill his 
Mother, and all the chief Nobility of the Empire ; 'twas boldly 
done to set the Metropolis of the Whole world on fire, and 
undauntedly play upon his Harp whilst he saw it burning; 
I could reckon up five hundred boldnesses of that great person 
(for why should not He too be called so ?) who wanted when 
he was to die, that courage which could hardly have failed any 
Woman in the like necessity. It would look (I must confess) 
like Envy or too much partiality if I should say that personal 
kind of courage had been deficient in the man we spKcak of; 
I am confident it was not, and yet I may venture I think to 
affirm, that no man ever bore the honour of so many victories, 
at the rate of fewer wounds or dangers of his own body, and 
though his valour might perhaps have given him a just pre- 
tension to one of the first charges in an Army, it could not 
certainly be a sufficient ground for a Title to the conunand of 
three Nations. What then shall we say ? that he did all this 
by Witchcraft ? He did so indeed in a great measure by a sin 
that is called like it in the Scriptures. But truely and un- 
passionately reflecting upon the advantages of his person which 
might be thought to have produced those of his Fortune, I can 
espy no other but extraordinary Diligence and infinite Dis- 
simulation ; and believe he was exalted above his Nation, 
partly by his own Faults, but chiefly for Ours. We have 
brought him thus briefly (not through all his Labyrinths) to 
the Supreme Usurpt Authority, and because you say it was 
great pity he did not live to command more Kingdoms, be 
pleased to let me represent to you in a few words, how well 
I conceive he governed these. And we will divide the con- 
sideration into that of his foreign and domestique Adtions. 
The first of his foreign was a peace with our Brethren of 
Holland (who were the first of our neighbours that God 
chastised for having had so great a hand in the encouraging 
and abetting our troubles at home) who would not imagine at 
first glympse that this had been the most virtuous and laudable 
deed that his whole life could have made any parade of? but 
no man can look upon all the circumstances without perceiving, 




that it was purely the sale and sacrificing of the greatest 
advantages that this Couiitrey could ever hope, and was ready 
to reap from a foreign War, to the private Interests of his 
Covctousness and Ambition, and the security of his new and 
unsetled Usurpation. No sooner is that danger past, but this 
Beams Padficus is kindling a fire in the Northern World, and 
carrying a War two thousand miles off Westwards. Two 
millions a year (besides all the Vales of his Protectorship) is 
as little capable to suffice now either his Avarice or Prodigality, 
as the two hundred pounds were that he was born to. He 
must have his prey of the whole Ititiirs both by Sea and Land, 
this great Aligator. To satisfie our Anti-SeUmen (who has 
made Silver almost as rare as Gold, and Gold as precious stones 
in his new Jenisaltm) we must go, ten thousand of his slaves, 
to fetch him riches from his fantastical Ophir. And because 
his flatterers brag of him as the most fortunate Prince (the 
fauitui as well as Sy/la of our Nation, whom God never 
forsook in any of his undertakings) I desire them to consider, 
how since the English name was ever heard of, it never 
received so great and so infamous a blow as under the 
imprudent conduft of this unlucky Faustus ; and herein let 
me admire the justice of God in this circumstance, that they 
who had enslaved their Countrey (though a great Army, which 
I wish may be observed by ours with trembling) should be so 
shamefully defeated by the hands of forty slaves. It was very 
ridiculous to sec how prettily they endeavoured to hide this 
ignominy under the great name of the Conquest of 'Jamaica^ 
as if a defeated Army should have the impudence to brag 
afterwards of the Viftory, because, though they had fled out 
of the Field of Battel, yet they quartered that night in a 
Village of the Enemies. The War with Spain was a necessary 
consequence of this folly, and how much we have gotten by it, 
let the Custom-house and Exchange inform you ; and if he 
please to boast of the taking a part of the Silver Fleet, (which 
indeed no body else but he, who was the sole gainer, has cause 
to do) at least, let him give leave to the rest of the Nation 
(which is the only loser) to complain of the loss of twelve 
hundred of her ships. But because it may here perhaps be 
answered, that his successes nearer home have cxtingutsht the 
disgrace of so remote miscarriages, and that Dunkiri ought 



more to be remembred for his glory, than St. Dmmnp for his 
disadvantage ; I must confess, as to the honour of the English 
courage, that they were not wanting upon that occasion 
(excepting only the feult of serving at least indireftly against 
their Master) to the upholding of the renown of their warlike 
Ancestors. But for his particular share of it, who sate still at 
home, and exposed them so frankly abroad, I can only say, that 
for less money than he in the short time of his Reign exacted 
from his fellow Subjects, some of our former Princes (with the 
daily hazard of their own persons) have added to the Dominion 
of England not only one Town, but even a greater Kingdom 
than it self. And this being all considerable as concerning his 
enterprises abroad, let us examine in the next place, how much 
we owe him for his Justice and good Government at home. 
And first he found the Common-wealth (as they then called it) 
in a ready stock of about 800™ pounds, he left the Common- 
wealth (as he had the impudent raillery still to call it) some 
two Millions and an half in debt. He found our Trade very 
much decayed indeed, in comparison of the golden times of our 
late Princes ; he left it as much aeain more decay'd than he 
found it ; and yet not only no Prince in Englandy but no 
Tyrant in the World ever sought out more base or in&mous 
means to raise moneys. I shall only instance in one that he 
put in pra6tice, and another that he attempted, but was 
frighted from the execution (even He) by the infamy of it. 
That which he put in practice was Decimation ; which was 
the most impudent breach of all publick Faith that the whole 
Nation had given, and all private capitulations which himself 
had made, as the Nations General and Servant, that can be 
found out (I believe) in all History, from any of the most 
barbarous Generals of the most barbarous People. Which 
because it has been most excellently and most largely laid open 
by a whole Book written upon that Subje£l, I shall only desire 
you here to remember the thing in general, and to be pleased 
to look upon that Author when you would recoiled all the 
particulars and circumstances of the iniquity. The other design 
of raising a present sum of money, which he violently persu^ 
but durst not put in execution, was by the calling in and 
establishment of the Jews at London ; from which he was 
rebuted by the universal outcry of the Divines, and even of 




the Citizens loo, who took it ill that a considerable number at 
least amongst themselves were not thought ynvs enough by 
their own Hirod. And for this design, they say, he invented 
(Oh Antichrist ! Uov^pav and o Iloyijpw !) to sell St. Pauh to 
them for a Synagogue, if their purses and devotions could have 
rcacht to the purchase. And this indeed if he had done only 
to reward that Nation which had given the first noble example 
of crucifying their King, it might have had some appearance of 
Gratitude, but he did it only for love of their Mammon; and 
would have sold afterwards for as much more St. Peltri (even 
at his own ff^eitmlniUr) to the Turks for a Mmquho. Such 
was his extraordinary Piety to God, that he desired he might 
be worshipped in all manners, excepting only that heathenish 
way of the Common- Prayer Book. But what do I speak of 
his wicked inventions for getting money ? when every penny 
that for almost five years he took every day from every man 
'living in England, Scotland and Iretandy was as much Robbery 
IS if it had been taken by a Thief upon the High-ways. Was 
it not so? or can any man think that Cromvjrll with the 
assistance of his Forces and Mosse-Troopers, had more right 
to the command of all mens purses, than he might have had 
to any ones whom he had met and been loo strong for upon a 
Road ? and yet when this came in the case of Mr. Coney, to be 
disputed by a legal tryal, he (which was the highest a£t of 
Tyranny that ever was seen in England) not only discouraged 
and threatned, but violently imprisoned the Council of the 
PlaintitF; that is, he shut up the Law it self close Prisoner, 
that no man might have relief from, or access to it. And it 
ought to be remembred, thai this was done by those men, who 
a few years before had so bitterly decried, and openly opposed 
the Kings regular and formal way of proceeding in the trial of 
a little Ship-money. But though w« lost the benefit of our old 
Courts of Justice, it cannot be denied that he set up new ones j 
and such they were, that as no virtuous Prince before would, 
so no ill one durst erett. What, have we lived so many 
hundred years under such a form of Justice as has been able 
regularly to punish all men that offended against it, and is it so 
deficient just now, that we must seek out new ways how to 
proceed against offenders.' The reason which can only be 
given in nature for a necessity of this, is, because those (hin^ 
c. 11. AA 369 


are now made Crimes, which were never esteemed so in 
former ages ; and there must needs be a new Court set up 
to punish that, which all the old ones were bound to protect 
and reward. But I am so far from declaiming (as you call it) 
against these wickednesses (which if I should undertake to do, 
I should never get to the Peroration) that you see I only give a 
hint of some few, and pass over the rest as things that are too 
many to be numbred, and must onely be weighed in gross. 
Let any man shew me (for though I pretend not to much 
reading, I will defie him in all History) let any man shew me 
(I say) an Example of any Nation in the World (though much 
greater than ours) where there have in the space of four years 
been made so many Prisoners only out of the endless jealousies 
of one Tyrants guilty imagination. I grant you that Marius 
and Sylloy and the accursed Triumvirate after them, put more 
People to death, but the reason I think partly was, because in 
those times that had a mixture of some honour with their 
madness, they thought it a more civil revenge against a Roman 
to take away his life, than to take away his Liberty. But 
truly in the point of murder too, we have little reason to think 
that our late Tyranny has been deficient to the examples that 
have ever been set it in other Countreys. Our Judges and our 
Courts of Justice have not been idle ; And to omit the whole 
reign of our late King (till the beginning of the War) in which 
no drop of blood was ever drawn but from two or three Ears, 
I think the longest time of our worst Princes scarce saw many 
more Executions than the short one of our blest Reformer. 
And we saw, and smelt in our open streets, (as I markt to you 
at first) the broyling of humane bowels as a burnt Ofiering of 
a sweet Savour to our Idol ; but all murdering, and all torturing 
(though after the subtilest invention of his Predecessors of 
Sicilie) is more Humane and more Supportable, than his selling 
of Christians, Englishmen, Gentlemen ; his selling of them 
(oh monstrous ! oh incredible I) to be slaves in America, If his 
whole life could be reproacht with no other aSion, yet this 
alone would weigh down all the multiplicity of Crimes in any 
of our Tyrants ; and I dare only touch, without stopping or 
insisting upon so insolent and so execrable a cruelty, for fear 
of falling into so violent (though a just) Passion, as would make 
me exceed that temper and moderation which I resolve to 



in this Discourse with you. These are great calamit: 
but even these are not the most insupportable that we have 
endured ; for so it is, that the scorn and mockery and insultings 
of an Enemy, are more painful than the deepest wounds of his 
serious fury. This Man was wanton and merry (unwittiiy 
and ungracefully merry) with our sufTerings ; He loved to say 
and do seaccless and fantastical things, onely to shew his power 
of doing or saying any thing. It would ill befit mine, ot any 
civil Mouth, to repeat those words which he spolce concerning 
the most sacred of our EngJish Laws, the Petition of Right, 
and Magna Charta. To day you should sec him ranting so 
wildly, [hat no body durst come near him, the morrow flinging 
of cushions, and playing at Snow-balls with his Servants. This 
moneth he assembles a Parliament, and professes himself with 
humble tears to be onely their Servant and their Minister; the 
next moneth he swears By the Living God, that he will turn 
them out of dorcs, and he does so, in his princely way of 
threatning, bidding them. Turn the buckles of their girdles 
behind them. The representative of a whole, nay of three 
whole Nations, was in his esteem so contemptible a meeting, 
that he thought the affronting and expelling of them to be a 
thing of so little consequence, as not to deserve that he should 
advise with any mortal man about it. What shall we call 
this? Boldness, ot Bruitishness? Rashness, or Phrensic? there 
is no name can come up to it, and therefore we must leave it 
without one. Now a Parliament must be chosen in the new 
manner, next time in the old form, but all cashiered still after 
the newest mode. Now he will govern by Major Generals, 
now by One House, now by Another House, now by No 
House ; now the freak takes him, and he makes seventy Peers 
of the Land at one clap {Exlempare, and itani pedt in une) and 
to manifest the absolute power of the Potter, he chooses not 
onely the worst Clay he could find, but picks up even the Durt 
and Mire, to form out of it his Vessels of Honour. It was said 
antiently of Fortune, that when she had a mind to be merry 
and to divert her self, she was wont to raise up such kind of 
people to the highest Dignities. This Son of fortune, CramwtU 
(who was himself one of the primest of her Jests) found out 
the true haut-goust of this pleasure, and rejoyced in the ex- 
nivagance of his wayes as the fullest demonstration of his 
AA 2 37 i 


uncontroulable Soverainty. Good God ! What have we seen ? 
and what have we sufFer'd ? What do all these adtions signifie ? 
What do they say aloud to the whole Nation, but this (even as 
plainly as if it were proclaimed by Heralds through the streets 
of London) You are Slaves and Fools, and so lie use you? 
These are briefly a part of those merits which you lament to 
have wanted the reward of more Kingdomes, and suppose that 
if he had lived longer he might have had them ; Which I am 
so far from concurring to, that I believe his seasonable dying to 
have been a greater good fortune to him than all the vidtories 
and prosperities of his Life. For he seemed evidently (methinks) 
to be near the end of his deceitful 1 Glories ; his own Army 
grew at last as weary of him as the rest of the People ; and I 
never past of late before his Palace (His, do I call it ? I ask 
God and the King pardon) but I never past of late before 
Whitehall without reading upon the Gate of it, Menty Mene^ 
Tekel^ Upharsin, But it pleased God to take him from the 
ordinary Courts of Men, and Juries of his Peers, to his own 
High Court of Justice, which being more mercifull than Ours 
below, there is a little room yet left for the hope of his friends, 
if he have any ; though the outward unrepentance of his death 
afford but small materials for the work of Charity, especially 
if he designed even then to Entail his own injustice upon his 
Children, and by it inextricable confusions and Civil Wars 
upon the Nation. But here's at last an end of him ; And 
where's now the fruit of all that blood and calamity which his 
ambition has cost the World ? Where is it ? Why, his Son 
(you'l say) has the whole Crop ; I doubt he will find it quickly 
Blasted ; I have nothing to say against the Gentleman, or any 
living of his family, on the contrary I wish him better fortune 
than to have a long and unquiet possession of his Masters 
inheritance. Whatsoever I have spoken against his Father, is 
that which I should have thought (though Decency perhaps 
might have hindred me from saying it) even against mine 
Own, if I had been so unhappy, as that Mine by the same 
wayes should have left me three Kingdoms. 

Here I stopt ; and my pretended Protestor, who, I expeded, 
should have been very angry, fell a laughing ; it seems at the 
simplicity of my discourse, for thus he replied : You seem to 
pretend extremely to the old obsolete rules of Virtue and 



Conscience, which makes me doubt very much whether from 
this vast prospect of three Kingdoms you can show me any 
acres of your own. But these are so far from making you a 
Prince, that I am afraid your friends will never have the 
contentment to see you so much as a Justice of Peace in your 
own Countrey. For this I perceive which you call Virtue, 
is nothing else but either the frowardness of a Cynick, or the 
laziness of an Epicurean. I am glad you allow me at least 
Artfiill Dissimulation, and unwearied Diligence in my Heroy 
and I assure you that he whose Life is constantly drawn by 
those two, shall never be misled out of the way of Greatness. 
But I see you are a Pedant, and Platonical Statesman, a 
Theoretical Common- wealths-man, an Utopian Dreamer. Was 
ever Riches gotten by your Golden Mediocrities? or the 
Supreme place attained to by Virtues that must not stir out 
of the middle ? Do you study AristotUs Politiques, and write, 
if you please. Comments upon them, and let another but 
praflise Machiavlly and let us see then which of you two will 
come to the greatest preferments. If the desire of rule and 
superiority be a Virtue (as sure I am it is more imprinted in 
human Nature than any of your Lethargical Morals ; and what 
is the Virtue of any Creature but the exercise of those powers 
and Inclinations which God has infused into it ?) if that (I say) 
be Virtue, we ought not to esteem any thing Vice, which is the 
most proper, if not the onely means of attaining of it. 

It is a Truth so certain, and so clear, 

That to the first-born Man it did appear ; 

Did not, the mighty Heir, the noble Cairiy 

By the fresh Laws of Nature taught, disdain 

That (though a Brother) any one should be 

A greater Favourite to God than He? 

He strook him down ; and, so (said He) so fell 

The Sheep which thou didst Sacrifice so well. 

Since all the fullest Sheaves which I could bring. 

Since all were Blasted in the Offering, 

Lest God should my next Vi6lime too despise. 

The acceptable Priest I'le Sacrifice. 

Hence Coward Fears ; for the first Blood so spilt 

As a Reward, He the first City built. 



'Twas a beginning generous and high, 
Fit for a Grand-Child of the Deity. 
So well advanced, *twas pity there he staid ; 
One step of Glory more he should have made. 
And to the utmost bounds of Greatness gone ; 
Had Adam too been killM, He might have ReignM Alone. 
One Brother's death, What do I mean to name, 
A small Oblation to Revenge and Fame ? 
The mighty-soul'd Ablmilec to shew ' 

What for high place a higher Spirit can do, 
A Hecatomb almost of Brethren slew. 
And seventy times in nearest blood he dy'd 
(To make it hold) his Royal Purple Pride- 
Why do I name the Lordly Creature Man ? 
The weak, the mild, the Coward Woman, can, i 

When to a Crown she cuts her sacred way. 
All that oppose with Manlike Courage slay. 
So Athaliah^ when she saw her Son, 
And with his Life her dearer Greatness gone. 
With a Majestique fury slaughter'd all 
Whom high birth might to high pretences call. 
Since he was dead who all her power sustained, 
Resolv'd to reign alone ; Resolv'd, and Reign'd. | 

In vain her Sex, in vain the Laws withstood, \ 

In vain the sacred plea of DavicTs Blood, 
A noble, and a bold contention, She, 
(One Woman) undertook with Destiny. 
She to pluck down, Destiny to uphold 
(Oblig'd by holy Oracles of old) 
The great Jessaan race on Juda^s Throne ; 
Till 'twas at last an equal Wager grown. 
Scarce Fate, with much adoe, the Better got by One. 
Tell me not she her self at last was slain ; 
Did she not first seven years (a Life-time) reign ? 
Seven royal years t' a publick spirit will seem 
More than the private Life of a Methusalem, 
'Tis Godlike to be Great ; and as they say 
A thousand years to God are but a day : 
So to a Man, when once a Crown he wears, 
The Coronation Days more than a thousand years. 



He would have ^ne on I perceivM in his blasphemies, but 
that by Gods Grace I became so bold as thus to interrupt him. 
I understand now perfectly (which I guest at long before) what 
kind of Angel and Proteftor you are ; and though your stile in 
verse be very much mended since you were wont to deliver 
Oracles, yet your Dodtrine is much worse than ever you had 
formerly (that I heard of) the fiice to publish ; whether your 
long practice with mankind has encreast and improved your 
malice, or whether you think Us in this age to be grown so 
impudently wicked, that there needs no more Art or Disguises 
to draw us to your party. My Dominion (said he hastily, and 
with a dreadful furious look) is so great in this World, and I 
am so powerful a Monarch of it, that I need not be ashamed 
that you should know me ; and that you may see I know you 
too, I know you to be an obstinate and inveterate Malignant ; 
and for that reason I shall take you along with me to the next 
Garrison of Ours ; from whence you shall go to the Tower, 
and from thence to the Court of Justice, and from thence you 
know whither. I was almost in the very pounces of the great 
Bird of prey, 

When, Lo, e're the last words were fiilly spoke. 

From a fair Cloud, which rather ope'd, than broke, 

A flash of Light rather than Lightning came. 

So swift, and yet so gentle was the Flame. 

Upon it rode, and in his full Career, 

Seem'd to my Eyes no sooner There than Here, 

The comliest Youth of all th' Angelique Race ; 

Lovely his shape, ineffable his Face. 

The Frowns with which he strook the trembling Fiend, 

All smiles of Humane Beauty did transcend, 

His Beams of Locks fell part dishevel'd down. 

Part upwards curld, and form'd a nat'ral Crown, 

Such as the Brittish Monarchs us'd to wear ; • 

If Gold might be compared with Angels Hair. 

His Coat and flowing Mantle were so bright. 

They seemM both made of woven Silver Light : 

Across his Breast an azure Ruban went, 

At which a Medal hung that did present 



In wondrous living figures to the sight, 

The tnystick Champions, and old Dragon's Aght, 

And from his Mantles side there shone afar, 

A £xt, and, I believe, a real Sur. 

In his fair hand (what need was there of more?) 

No Arms but th' Englith bloody Cross he bore, 

Which when he towards th' affrighted Tyrant bent. 

And some few words pronounc'd (but what they meant, 

Or were, could not, alas, by me be known, 

Only I well perceiv'd Jesus was one) 

He trembled, and he roar'd, and fled away ; 

Mad to ijuit thus his more than hop'd-for prey. 

Such Rage inflames the Wolves wild heart and eyes 

(Rob'd as he thinks unjustly of his prize) 

Whom unawares the Shepherd spies, and draws 

The bleating Lamb from out his ravenous jaws. 

The Shepherd fain himself would he assail. 

But Fear above his Hunger does prevail. 

He knows his Foe too strong, and must be gone ; 

He grins as he l<xiks back, and howls as he goes on. 


Several Discourses by way of 
Sssays^ in Verse and Prose. 

I. Of Liberty. 

THE Liberty of a people consists in being governed by Laws 
which they have made themselves, under whatsoever form 
it be of Government. The Liberty of a private man in being 
Master of his own Time and Adlions, as far as may consist 
with the Laws of God and of his Country. Of this latter only 
we are here to discourse, and to enquire what estate of Life 
does best seat us in the possession of it. This Liberty of our 
own A£tions is such a Fundamental Priviledge of human 
Nature, that God himself notwithstanding all his infinite power 
and right over us, permits us to enjoy it, and that too after a 
Forfeiture made by the Rebellion of Adam, He takes so much 
care for the intire preservation of it to us, that he suffers 
neither his Providence nor Eternal Decree to break or infringe 
it. Now for our Time, the same God, to whom we are but 
Tcnants-at-will for the whole, requires but the seventh part to 
be paid to him as a small Quit-Rent in acknowledgment of his 
Tide. It is man only that has the impudence to demand our 
whole time, though he neither gave it, nor can restore it, nor 
is able to pay any considerable valew for the least part of it. 
This Birth-right of mankind above all other creatures, some 
are forced by hunger to sell, like Esau^ for Bread and Broth, 
but the greatest part of men make such a Bargain for the 
delivery up of themselves, as Thamar did with Judah^ instead 
of a Kid, the necessary provisions for humane life, they are 
contented to do it for Rings and Bracelets. The great dealers 
in this world may be divided into the Ambitious, the Covetous, 
and the Voluptuous, and that all these men sell themselves to 



be slaves, though to the vulgar it may seem a Stoical Paradox, 
will appear to the wise so plain and obvious that they will 
scarce think it deserves the labour of Argumentation. Let 
us first consider the Ambitious, and those both in their progress 
to Greatness, and after the attaining of it. There is nothing 
truer than what SaJust saies, Dominationis in alios servitiam suam 
Mercedem danty They are content to pay so great a price as 
their own Servitude to purchase the domination over others. 
The first thing they must resolve to sacrifice, is their whole 
time, they must never stop, nor ever turn aside whilst they 
are in the race of Glory, no not like Atalanta for Golden 
Apples. Neither indeed can a man stop himself if he would 
when he's in this Career. Fertur equis Auriga nejue audit 
Currus habenas. 

Pray, let us but consider a little, what mean servil things 
men do for this Imaginary Food. We cannot fetch a greater 
example of it, then from the chief men of that Nation which 
boasted most of Liberty. To what pitiful baseness did the 
noblest Romans submit themselves for the obtaining of a 
Prsetorship, or the Consular dignity : they put on the Habit 
of Suppliants, and ran about on foot, and in durt, through all 
the Tribes to beg voices, they flattered the poorest Artisans, 
and carried a Nomenclator with them, to whisper in their car 
every mans name, least they should mistake it in their saluta- 
tions : they shook the hand, and kist the cheek of every popular 
Tradesman ; they stood all day at every Market in the publick 
places to shew and ingratiate themselves to the rout ; thejr 
imploy'd all their friends to sollicite for them, they kept open 
Tables in every street, they distributed wine and bread and 
money, even to the vilest of the people. En Romanos rerum 
Dominos! Behold the Masters of the World begging from door 
to door. This particular humble way to Greatness is now out 
of fashion, but yet every Ambitious person is still in some sort 
a Roman Candidate. He must feast and bribe, and attend and 
flatter, and adore many Beasts, though not the Beast with 
many heads. Cat[t]line who was so proud that he could not 
content himself with a less power than Sylla^Sj was yet so 
humble for the attaining of it, as to make himself the most 
contemptible of all Servants, to be a publique Bawd, to provide 
whores, and something worse, for all the young Gentlemen o( 



R^nUy whose hot lusts and courages, and heads he thought he 
might make use of. And since I happen here to propose 
Cat[t]Iine for my instance (though there be thousand of 
Examples for the same thing) give me leave to transcribe 
the Chara£ler which Cicero gives of this noble Slave, because 
it is a general description of all Ambitious men, and which 
Machiavil perhaps would say ought to be the rule of their life 
and adtions. This man (saies he, as most of you may well 9p*i:J?T 
remember) had many artificial touches and stroakes that look'd 
like the beauty of great Virtues, his intimate conversation was 
with the worst of men, and yet he seemM to be an Admirer 
and Lover of the best, he was furnish't with all the nets of 
Lust and Luxury, and yet wanted not the Arms of Labour 
and Industry: neither do I believe that there was ever any 
monster in nature, composed out of so many different and 
disagreeing parts. Who more acceptable, sometimes, to the 
most honorable persons, who more a favourite to the most 
Infiunous ? who, sometimes, appear'd a braver Champion, who 
at other times, a bolder Enemy to his Country ? who more 
dissolute in his pleasures, who more patient in his toiles ? who 
more rapacious in robbing, who more profuse in giving i 
Above all things, this was remarkable and admirable in him. 
The arts he had to acquire the good opinion and kindness of 
all sorts of men, to retain it with great complaisance, to 
communicate all things to them, to watch and serve all the 
occasions of their fortune, both with his money and his interest, 
and his industry ; and if need were, not by sticking at any 
wickedness whatsoever that might be useful to them, to bend 
and turn about his own Nature and laveer with every wind, 
to live severely with the melancholy, merrily with the pleasant, 
gravely with the aged, wantonly with the young, desperately 
with the bold, and debauchedly with the luxurious : with this 
variety and multiplicity of his nature, as he had made a 
coUeflion of friendships with all the most wicked and reckless 
of all Nations, so by the artificial simulation of some vertues, 
he made a shift to ensnare some honest and eminent persons 
into his femiliarity ; neither could so vast a design as the 
destrudtion of this Empire have been undertaken by him, if 
the immanity of so many vices had not been covered and 
disguised by the appearances of some excellent qualities. 



I see, methinks, the Charadter of an Anti^Paul^ who became 
all things to all men, that he might destroy all ; who only 
wanted the assistance of Fortune to have been as great as his 
Friend Casar was a little after him. And the ways of Caesar 
to compass the same ends (I mean till the Civil War, which 
was but another manner of setting his Country on Fire) were 
not unlike these, though he used afterward his unjust Dominion 
with more moderation then I think the other would have done. 
Salust therefore who was well acquainted with them both, and 
with many such like Gentlemen of his time, saies. That it is 
the nature of Ambition {Ambitio multos mortaUs f alios fieri 
coegit fsf) to make men Lyers and Cheaters, to hide the Truth 
in their breasts, and show, like juglers, another thing in their 
Mouths, to cut all fri[e]ndships and enmities to the measure of 
their own Interest, and to make a good Countenance without 
the help of good will. And can there be Freedom with this 
perpetual constraint ? What is it but a kind of Rack that forces 
men to say what they have no mind to ? I have wondred at 
the extravagant and barbarous stratagem of Zopirus^ and more 
at the praises which I finde of so deformed an adlion ; who 
though he was one of the seven Grandees of Persioy and the 
Son of Megabhes^ who had freed before his Country from an 
ignoble Servitude, slit his own Nose and Lips, cut off his own 
Ears, scourged and wounded his whole body, that he might, 
under pretence of having been mangled so inhumanly by 
Darius^ be received into Babylon (then beseiged by the Persians) 
and get into the command of it by the recommendation of so 
cruel a Sufferance, and their hopes of his endeavouring to 
revenge it. It is great pity the Babylonians suspected not his 
falshood, that they might have cut off his hands too, and whipt 
him back again. But the design succeeded, he betrayed the 
City, and was made Governour of it. What brutish master 
ever punished his offending Slave with so little mercy as 
Ambition did this Zopirus ? and yet how many are there in 
all nations who imitate him in some degree for a less reward? 
who though they indure not so much corporal pain for a small 
preferment or some honour (as they call it) yet stick not to 
commit adlions, by which they are more shamefully and more 
lastingly stigmatized ? But you may say. Though these be 
the most ordinary and open waies to greatness, yet there arc 



narrow, thorney, and little-trodden paths too, through which 
some men finde a passage by vertuous industry. I grant, 
sometimes they may ; but then that Industry must be such, 
as cannot consist with Liberty, though it may with Honesty. 

Thou 'rt careful, frugal, painful ; we commend a Servant 
so, but not a Fr[ie]nd. 

Well then, we must acknowledg the toil and drudgery 
which we are forced to endure in this Ascent, but we arc 
Epicures and Lords when once we are gotten up into the 
High Places. This is but a short Apprentiship after which 
we are made free of a Royal Company. If we fall in love 
with any beautious woman, we must be content that they 
should be our Mistresses whilst we woo them, as soon as we 
are wedded and enjoy, 'tis we shall be the Masters. 

I am willing to stick to this similitude in the case of 
Greatness ; we enter into the Bonds of it, like those of 
Matrimony ; we are bewitcht with the outward and painted 
Beauty, and take it for Better or worse, before we know its 
true nature and interiour Inco[n]veniences. A great Fortune 
(saies Seneca) is a great servitude. But many are of that 
Opinion which Brutus imputes (I hope untruly) even to that 
Patron of Liberty, his Friend Cicero^ We fear (saies he to 
Atticus) Death, and Banishment, and Poverty, a great deal too 
much. Cicero J I am afraid, thinks these to be the worst of 
evils, and if he have but some persons, from whom he can 
obtain what he has a mind to, and others who will flatter and 
worship him, seems to be well enough contented with an 
honorable servitude, if any thing indeed ought to be called 
honorable, in so base and contumelious a condition. This was 
spoken as became the bravest man who was ever born in the 
bravest Commonwealth : But with us generally, no condition 
passes for servitude, that is accompanied with great riches, with 
honors, and with the service of many Inferiours. This is but 
a Deception of the sight through a false medium, for if a 
Groom serve a Gentleman in his chamber, that Gentleman 
a Lord, and that Lord a Prince ; The Groom, the Gentleman, 
and the Lord, are as much servants one as the other : the 
circumstantial difference of the ones getting only his Bread 
and wages, the second a plentiful, and the third a superfluous 
estate, is no more intrinsical to this matter then the difference 



between a plain, a rich and gaudv Livery. I do not sav, That 
he who sells his whole time, and his own will for one hundred 
thousand, is not a wiser Merchant than he who does it for one 
hundred pounds, but I will swear, they are both Merchants, 
and that he is happier than both, who can live contentedlv 
without selling that estate to which he was bom. But this 
Dependance upon Superiours is but one chain of the Lovers of 
Power, Amatorem Trecenta \Pirithoum\cohibent catena. Let's 
begin with him by break of day : For by that time he*s 
besieged by two or three hundred Suitors ; and the Hall and 
Antichambers (all the Outworks) possest by the Enemy as 
soon as his Chamber opens, they are ready to break into that, 
or to corrupt the Guards, for entrance. This is so essential 
a part of Greatness, that whosoever is without it, looks like 
a Fallen Favorite, like a person disgraced, and condemned to 
do what he please all the morning. There are some who 
rather then want this, are contented to have their rooms fild 
up every day with murmuring and cursing Creditors, and to 
charge bravely through a Body of them to get to their Coach. 
Now I would fain know which is the worst duty, that of any 
one particular person who waits to speak with the Great man, 
or the Great mans, who waits every day to speak with all the 
comfMiny. Aliena negotia centum Per caput £5* circum saliunt 
latusy A hundred businesses of other men (many unjust and 
most impertinent) fly continually about his Head and £ars, and 
strike him in the I* ace like Dorres ; Let's contemplate him a 
little at another special Scene of Glory, and that is, his Table. 
Here he seems to be the Lord of all Nature : The Earth 
affords him her best Metals for his dishes, her best Vegetables 
and Animals for his food ; the Air and Sea supply him with 
their choicest Birds and Fishes : and a great many men who 
look like Masters, attend upon him, and yet when all this is 
done, even all this is but Table d'Hoste, 'Tis crowded with 
people for whom he cares not, for with many Parasites, and 
some Spies, with the most burdensome sort of Guests, the 
Endeavourers to be witty. 

But every body pays him great respedt, every body commends 
his Meat, that is, his Mony ; every body admires the exquisite 
dressing & ordering of it, that is, his Clark of the kitchin, or 
his Cook ; every body loves his Hospitality, that is, his Vanity. 



But I desire to know why the honest In-keeper who provides a 
publick Table for his Profit, should be but of a mean profession ; 
and he who docs it for his Honour, a tnunificeni Prince, You'l 
say, Because one sels, and the othtr gives : Nay, both sell, 
though for diifereni things, the one for plain Money, the other 
for I know not what Jewels, whose value is in Custom and in 
Fancy. If ihen his Table be made a Snare (as the Scripture 
spcakes) to his Liberty, where can he hope for Freedom, there 
is alwaics, and every where some restraint upon him. He's 
guarded with Crowds, and shackled with Formalities. The 
half hat, the whole hat, the half smile, the whole smile, the 
nod, the embrace, the Positive parting with a little bow, the 
Comparative at the middle of the room, the Superlative at 
the door ; and if the person be Pan huper uiastui, there's a 
Hupcnuperlalivf ceremony then of conducting him to the 
boitomc of the stairs, or to the very gate; as if there were 
such Rules set to these Leu'iatham as are to the Sea, Hitherle 
ihalt thou gSy and na further. Ptrditur hac inttr m'urr\i>\ Lux, 
Thus wretchedly the precious day is lost. 

How many impertinent Letters and Visits must he receive, 
and sometimes answer both too as impertinently ? he never sets 
his foot beyond his Threshold, unless, like a Funeral, he have 
a train to follow him, as if, like the dead Corps, he could not 
stir, till the Bearers were all ready. My life, (sayes Horace, 
speaking to one of these Magn'ifico'i) is a great deal more easie 
and commodious then thine. In that I can go into the Market 
and cheapen what I please without being wondred at ; and 
take my Horse and ride as far as Tarenlum, without being 
mist, Tis an unpleasant constraint to be alwayes under the 
sight and observation, and censure of others ; as there may be 
Vanity in it, so mcthinks, there should be Vexation too of 
spirit : And I wonder how Princes can endure to have two 
or three hundred men stand gazing upon them whilst they 
are at dinner, and taking notice of every bit they eat. Nothing 
seems greater and more Lordly then the multitude of Domestick 
Servants ; but, even this too, if weighed seriously, is a piece of 
Servitude; unless you will be a Servant to them (as many ' 
men are) the trouble and care of yours in the Government 
of them all, is much more then that of every one of them in 
their observance of you. I take the Profession of a School- 



Master to be one of the most usefiill, and which ought to be 
of the most honourable in a Commonwealth, yet certainly all 
his Fasces and Tyrannical Aut[h]ority over so many Boy^ taka 
away his own Liberty more than theirs. 

I do but slightly touch upon all these particulars of the 
slavery of Greatness : I shake but a few of their outward 
Chains ; their Anger, Hatred, Jealousie, Fear, Envy, Grief, 
and all the Etcatera of their Passions, which are the secret, 
but constant Tyrants and Torturers of their life, I omit here, 
because though they be symptomes most frequent and violent 
in this Disease ; yet they are common too in some degree to 
the Epidemical Disease of Life it self. But, the Ambitious 
man, though he be so many wayes a slave (O toties servus!) 
yet he bears it bravely and heroically ; he struts and looks big 
upon the Stage; he thinks himself a real Prince in his Masking 
Habit, and deceives too all the foolish part of his Spedlators : 
He's a slave in Saturnalibus, The Covetous Man is a down- 
right Servant, a Draught Horse without Bells or Feathers; 
ad Metalla damnatus^ 3. man condemned to work in Mines, 
which is the lowest and hardest condition of servitude ; and, 
to encrease his Misery, a worker there for he knows not 
whom : He heapeth up Riches and knows not who shall enjoy 
them ; 'Tis onely sure that he himself neither shall nor can 
inioy them. He's an indigent needy slave, he will hardly 
yia^.' allow himself Cloaths, and Board- Wages ; Unciatim vix dememo 
de suo suum defraudam Gen'iutn comtariit miser ; He defrauds 
not only other Men, but his own Genius ; He cheats himself 
for Mony. But the servile and miserable condition of this 
wretch is so apparent, that I leave it, as evident to every mans 
sight, as well as judgment. It seems a more difficult work to 
prove that the Voluptuous Man too is but a servant : What 
can be more the life of a Freeman, or as we say ordinarily, of 
a Gentleman, then to follow nothing but his own pleasures? 
Why, rie tell you who is that true Freeman, and that true 
Gentleman ; Not he who blindly follows all his pleasures (the 
very name of Follower is servile) but he who rationally guides 
them, and is not hindred by outward impediments in the 
conduft and enjoyment of them. If I want skill or force to 
restrain the Beast that I ride upon, though I bought it, and 
call it my own, yet in the truth of the matter I am at that 


Sefl. I. 


time rather his Man, then he my Horse. The Voluptuous 
Men (whom we are fallen upon) may be divided, I think, 
into the Lustful and Luxurious, who are both servants of the 
Belly ; the other whom we spoke of before, the Ambitious 
and the Covetous, were KaKo. Sijpta, Evil wildc Beasts, these 
are raarept^ apyai, slow Bellies, as our Translation renders 
it ; but the word 'Apyal (which is a fantastical word, with 
two diredlly opposite significations) will bear as well the 
translation of Quick or Diligent Bellies, and both Interpreta- 
tions may be applyed to these men. Metrodorui said, That he 
had learnt "AXij^ws yaa-rpi ^aplK^trSai, to give his Belly just 
thanks for all his pleasures. This by the Calumniators of 
Epicurus his Philosophy was objcdied as one of the most 
scandalous of all their sayings; which, according to my 
Charitable luiderstanding may admit a very virtuous sence, 
which is, that he thanked his own Belly for that moderation 
in the customar}- appetites of it, wh ich can only give a Man 
Liberty and Happiness in this World. Let this suffice at 
present to be spoken of those great Triumviri of the World ; 
the Covetous Man, who is a mean villain, like Lepidut ^ the 
Ambitious, who is a brave one, like OStaviui^ and the 
Voluptuous, who is a loose and debauched one, like Mark 
Anlany. Quisnam igifur Lihtr ? Sapifni, siii qui Jmperiasus : f 
Not Oenemaui, who commits himself wholly to a Chariotteer si 
that may break his Neck, but the Man, 

Who governs his own coune vrith steddy hand. 
Who does Himself with Sovereign Pow'r command ; 
Whom neither Death, nor Poverty does fright. 
Who stands not aukwardly in his own light 
Against the Truth : who can when Pleasures knock 
Loud at his door, keep tirm the bolt and lock. 
^_ Who can though Honour at his gate should stay 
^H In alt her Masking Cloaihs, send her away, 
^H And cry, be gone, I have no mind to Play. 

^T'his I confess is a Freeman : but it may he said, That many 
persons are so shackled by iheir Fortune, that they are hindred 
from enjoyment of that Manumission which they have obtained 
from Virtue. I do both understand, and in part feel the weight 

kthis objeftion: All I can Answer to it, is, That we must 
c, 11. BB 385 


get as much Liberty as we can, we must use our utmost 
endeavours, and when all that is done, be contented with the 
Length of that Line which is allow'd us. If vou ask me 
in what condition of Life I think the most allow d ; I should 
pitch upon that sort of People whom King James was wont 
to call the Happiest of our Nation, the Men placed in the 
Countrey by their Fortune above an High-Constable, and yet 
beneath the trouble of a Justice of Peace, in a moderate plenty, 
without any just are;ument for the desire of encreasing it \xj 
the care of many relations, and with so much knowledge and 
love of Piety and Philosophy (that is of the study or Godi 
Laws, and of his Creatures) as may afford him matter enough 
never to be Idle though without Business ; and never to be 
Melancholy though without Sin or Vanity. 

I shall conclude this tedious Discourse with a Praver of 
mine in a Copy of Latin Verses, of which I remember no 
other part, and {pour faire bonne bouche) with some other Verxs 
upon the same Subjea. 

Magne DeuSy quod ad has vita brevis attinet horasy 
Da mihiy da Panem Libertatemquey nee u/tri 
Sollicitas effundo precesy siquid datur ultri 
Accipiam grains i si non^ Contentus abibo. 

For the few Houres of Life allotted me. 
Give me (great God) but Bread and Liberty, 
rie beg no more ; if more thou'rt pleasM to give, 
rie thankfully that Overplus receive: 
If bevond this no more be freely sent, 
rie thank for this, and go away content. 

MartiaL Lib. 2. 

yota mi breviter^ &c. 

WEll then. Sir, you shall know how far extend 
The Prayers and Hopes of your Poetick Friend; 
He does not Palaces nor Manors crave. 
Would be no Lord, but less a Lord would have. 
The ground he holds, if he his own, can call, 
He quarrels not with Heaven because 'tis small: 



Let gay and toilsome Greatness others please. 
He loves of homely Littleness the Ease. 
Can any Man in guilded rooms attend, 
And his dear houres in humble visits spend ; 
When in the fresh and beauteous Fields he may 
With various healthful pleasures fill the day? 
If there be Man (ye Gods) I ought to Hate 
Dependance and Attendance be his Fate. 
Still let him Busie be, and in a crowd. 
And very much a Slave, and very Proud : 
Thus he perhaps Pow'rRil and Rich may grow; 
No matter, O ye Gods ! that Tie allow. 
But let him Peace and Freedome never see ; 
Let him not love this Life, who loves not Me. 

Martial. L. [2.] 
Vis fieri Liber ? &c. 

WOuld you be Free ? *Tis your chief wish, you say. 
Come on ; Tie shew thee. Friend, the certain way, 
If to no Feasts abroad thou lov'st to go. 
Whilst bounteous God does Bread at home bestow. 
If thou the goodness of thy Cloaths dost prize 
By thine own Use, and not by others Eyes. 

If onely safe from Weathers) thou can'st dwell, 

[n] a small House, but a convenient Shell, 
If thou without a Sigh, or Golden wish. 
Canst look upon thv Beechen Bowl, and Dish ; 
If in thy Mind such power and greatness be. 
The Persian King's a Slave compar'd with Thee. 

Mart. L. 2. 

Quod te nomine? &c. 

THat I do you with himible Bowes no more, 
And danger of my naked Head adore. 
That I who Lord and Master cry'd erewhile. 
Salute you in a new and diflerent Stile, 

BB 2 387 



Bv your own Name, a scandal to jrou now. 

Think not that I forget my self or you : 

Bv loss of all things by all others sou^t 

This Freedome, and the Freemans Hat is bought* 

A Lord and Master no man wants but He 

Who o're Himself has no Autoritie. 

Who does for Honours and for Riches strive, 

And Follies, without which Lords cannot Live. 

If thou from Fortune dost no Servant crave. 

Believe it, thou no Master need*st to have. 


Upon Liberty. 

FReedome with Virtue takes her seat. 
Her proper place, her onely Scene, 
Is in the Golden Mean, 

She lives not with the Poor, nor with the Great. 

The Wings of those Necessity has dipt. 

And they*r in Fortunes Bridewell whipt, 
To the laborious task of Bread \ 

These are bv various Tyrants Captive lead. 

Now wild Ambition with imperious force 

Rides, raines, and spurs them like th' unruly Horse. 
And servile Avarice yoakes them now 
Like toilsome Oxen to the Plow. 

And sometimes Lust, like the Misguiding Light, 

Drawes them through all the Labyrinths of Night. 

If any Few among the Great there be 

From these insulting Passions free. 
Yet we ev'n those too fetter'd see 

By Custom, Business, Crowds, and formal Decency. 

And whercso'ere they stay, and whcreso'ere they go, 
Impertinencies roimd them flow : 
These are the small uneasie thines 
Which about Greatness still are found. 
And rather it Molest then Wound : 



Like Gnats which too much heat of summer brings i 
But Cares do swarm there too, and those have stings: 
As when the Honey does too open lie, 

A thousand Wasps about it fly : 
Nor will the Master ev'n to share admit ; 
The Master stands aloof, and dares not Tast of it. 


Tis Morning ; well ; I fain would ytt sleep on ; 

You cannot now; you must be gone 

To Court, or to the noisy Hall: 
Besides, the Rooms without are crowded all; 

The st[r]eam of Business does begin, 
And a Spring-Tide of Clients is come in. 
Ah cruel Guards, which this poor Prisoner keep ! 

Will they not sufier him to sleep? 
Make an Escape; out at the Postern flee. 
And get some blessed Houres of Libertie, 
With a few Friends, and a few Dishes dine. 

And much of Mirth and moderate Wine. 
To thy bent Mind some relaxation give. 
And steal one dav out of thy Life to Live. 
Oh happy man (he cries) to whom kind Heaven 

Has such a Fr^ome alwayes given ! 
Why, mighty Madman, what should hinder thee 

From being every day as Free? 

In all the Freeborn Nations of the Air, 

Never did Bird a spirit so mean and sordid bear. 

As to exchange his Native Liberty 

Of soaring bddUr up into the sky. 

His Liberty to ding, to Perch, or Fly, 

When, and whereVer he thought good. 
And all his innocent pleasures of the Wood, 
For a more plentiful or constant Food. 

Nor ever did Ambitious rs^ 

Make him into a painted Cage ; 
Or the false Forest of a well-hung Room, 

For Honour and Preferment come. 



Now, Blessings on ye all, ye Heroick Race, 

Who keep their Primitive powers and rights so weU 

Though Men and Angels fell. 
Of all Material Lives the highest place, 

To you is justly given ; 

And wayes and walkes the neerest Heaven. 
Whilst wretched we, yet vain and proud, think fit 

To boast, Tnat we look up to it. 
Even to the Universal Tyrant Love, 

You Homage pay but once a year : 
None so degenerous and unbirdly prove. 

As his perpetual yoke to bear. 
None but a few unhappy Houshold Foul, 

Whom human Lordship does controul ; 

Who from their birth corrupted were 
By Bondage, and by mans Example here. 


He's no small Prince who every day 
Thus to himself can say. 

Now will I sleep, now eat, now sit, now walk. 

Now meditate alone, now with Acquaintance talk. 

This I will do, here I will stay, 

Or if my Fancy call me away, 

My Man and I will presently go ride ; 

(For we before have nothing to provide. 

Nor after are to render an account) 

To Dover^ Barwick^ or the Cornish Moimt. 
If thou but a short journey take. 
As if thy last thou wert to make. 

Business must be dispatch'd e're thou canst part. 
Nor canst thou stirr unless there be 
A hundred Horse and Men to wait on thee, 
And many a Mule, and many a Cart; 
What an [unwieldy] man thou art ? 
The Rhodian Colossus so 
A Journey too might go. 

Where Honour or where Conscience does not bind 
No other Law shall shackle me. 
Slave to my self I will not be, 



Nor shall my future Actions be confinM 

By my own present Mind. 
Who by Resolves and Vows engaged does stand 

For days that yet belong to Fate, 
Does like an unthrift Mor[t]gage his Estate 

Before it falls into his Hand, 

The Bondman of the Cloister so 
All that he does receive does always owe. 
And still as Time comes in, it goes away 

Not to Enjoy, but Debts to pay. 
Unhappy Slave, and Pupil to a Bell ! 
Which his hours work as well as hours does tell ! 
Unhappy till the Ust, the kind releasing Knell. 

If Life should a well-order'd Poem be 

(In which he only hits the white 
Who joyns true Profit witn the best Delight) 
The more Heroique strain let others take, y. 

Mine the Pindarique way I'le make. ^ 
The Matter shall be Grave, the Numbers loose and free. - 
It shall not keep one setled pace of Time, ^ 
In the same Tune it shall not always Chime, 
Nor shall each day just to his Neighbour Rhime, ? i* ^ 

A thousand Liberties it shall dispense, A^ a 

And yet shall mannage all without offence £) x 
Or to the sweetness of the Sound, or greatness of the Senc^ 
Nor shaU it never from one Subject start, 

Nor seek Transitions to depart. 
Nor its set way o*re Stiles and Bridges make. 

Nor thorough Lanes a Compass take 
As if it fear'd some trespass to commit. 

When the wide Air's a Road for it. 
So the Imperial Eagle does not stay 

Till the whole Carkass he devour 

That's faUen into its power. 
As if his generous Hunger understood 
That he can never want plenty of Food, 

He only sucks the tastful Blood. 
And to fresh Game flies cheerfully away; 
To Kites and meaner Birds he leaves the mangled Prey. 




[2.] Of Solitude. 

Unquam minus soluSj quam cum solusj is now become a 
very vulgar saying. JEvery Man and almost every Boy 
for these seventeen hundred years, has had it in his mouth. But 
it was at first spoken by the Excellent Scipio^ who was without 
question a most Eloquent and Witty person, as well as the 
most Wise, most Worthy, most Happy, and the Greatest of 
all Mankind. His meaning no doubt was this, That he found 
more satisfadtion to his mind, and more improvement of it by 
Solitude then by Company, and to shew that he spoke not 
this loosly or out of vanity, after he had made R§mi^ Mistriss 
of almost the whole World, he retired himself from it by a 
voluntary exile, and at a private house in the middle of a wood 
E/isi. 86. neer Linternumy passed the remainder of his Glorious life no 
less Gloriously. This House Seneca went to see so long after 
with great veneration, and among other things describes his 
Baths to have been of so mean a structure, that now, sajs he, 
the basest of the people would despise them, and cry out, poor 
Scipio understood not how to live. What an Authority is here 
for the credit of Retreat ? and happy had it been for Hannibal^ 
if Adversity could have taught him as much Wisdom as was 
learnt by Scipio from the highest prosperities. This would be 
no wonder if it were as truly as it is colourably and wittily 
said by Monsieur de Montagne. That Ambition it self might 
teach us to love Solitude ; there's nothing does so much hate 
to have Companions. 'Tis true, it loves to have its Elbows 
free, it detests to have Company on either side, but it delights 
above all Things in a Train behind, I, and Ushers too before 
it. But the greatest part of men are so far fix>m the opinion 
of that noble Romany that if they chance at any time to be 
without company, they'r like a becalmed Ship, they never 
move but by the wind of other mens breath, and have no Oan 
of their own to steer withal. It is very fantastical and contra- 
didlory in humane Nature, that Men should love themselves 
above all the rest of the world, and yet never endure to be 
with themselves. When they are in love with a Mistriss, 
all other persons are importunate and burdensome to them. 
Tecum vivere amemy tecum obeam LubenSy They would live and 
dye with her alone. 





Sic tga stcretii possum heni vivtrt s'lhis 
Qui nulla humona tit via trita ptdi, 
fu mihi curarum requies^ tu naSit vtl atr& 
LiiittHf i^ in so/is tu mihi turba lotis. 
With thee for ever I in woods could rest, 
Where never humane foot the ground has prest, 
Thou rroin al! shades the darkness canst exclude, 
And from a Desart banish Solitude. 

And yet our Dear Self is so wearisome lo us, that we can 
scarcely support its conversation for an hour together. This 
is such an odd temper of mind as Catullus expresses towards 
one of his Mistresses, whom we may suppose to have been of 
a very unsociable humour. 

Odi Stf //mo, quanim id faciam raliane requiris? 
Neldo, sed fieri ttnliv, & txcrudor. 

I Hate, and yet I Love thee to[o] ; 

How can that be ? I know not how ; 

Only that so it is I know. 

And feel with Torment that 'tis so. 
It is a deplorable condition, this, and drives a man sometimes 
to pittiful shifts in seeking how to avoid Himself, 

The truth of the matter is, that neither he who is a Fop 
in the world, is a fit man to be alone ; nor he who has set 
his heart much upon the world, though he have never so much 
understanding; so that Solitude can be well fitted and set right, 
but upon a very few persons. They must have enough know- 
ledge of the World to sec the vanity of it, and enough Virtue 
to despise all Vanity ; if the Mind be possest with any Lust 
or Passions, a man had better be in a Faire, then in a Wood 
alone. They may like petty Thieves cheat us perhaps, and 
pick our pockets in the midst of company, but like Robbers 
they use to strip and bind, or murder us when they catch us 
alone. This is but to retreat from Men, and fell into the 
hands of Devils. 'Tis like the punishment of Parricides among 
the Romans^ to be sow'd into a B^ with an Ape, a Dog, and 
a Serpent. The first work therefore that a man must do to 
make himself capable of the good of Solitude, is, the very 
Eradication of all Lusts, (or how is it possible for a Man to 



enjoy himsdf while his Afie£tion$ are tyed to things without 
Himself? In the second place, he must learn the Art and 
get the Habit of Thinking ; for this too, no less than well 
speaking, depends upon much practice, and Cogitation is the 
thing which distinguishes the Solitude of a God from a wild 
Beast. Now because the soul of Man is not bv its own Nature 
or observation furnisht with sufficient Materials to work upon ; 
it is necessary for it to have continual recourse to Learning and 
Books for fresh supplies, so that the solitary Life will grow 
indigent, and be reaidv to starve without them ; but if once we 
be throughly engageo in the Love of Letters, instead of being 
wearied with the length of any day, we shidl only complain 
of the shortness of our whole Life. 

O vita^ stulto iongOj sapienti brevis! 

O Life, long to the Fool, short to the Wise ! 

The first Minister of State has not so much business in 
publique, as a wise man has in private ; if the one have little 
feasure to be alone, the other has less leasure to be in company ; 
the one has but part of the afiairs of one Nation, the other 
all the works of God and Nature under his consideration. 
There is no saying shocks me so much as that which I hear 
very often, That a man does not know how to pass his Time. 
'T would have been but ill spoken by Methusalem in the Nine 
hundred sixty ninth year of his Life, so far it is from us, who 
have not time enough to attain to the utmost perfection of any 
part of any Science, to have cause to complain that we are 
forced to be idle for want of work. But this you*l say is work 
only for the Learned, others are not capable either of the 
employments or divertisements that arrive from Letters ; I know 
they are not ; and therefore cannot much recommend Solitude 
to a man totally illiterate. But if any man be so unlearned 
as to want entertainment of the little Intervals of accidental 
Solitude, which frequently occurr in almost all conditions (except 
the very meanest of the people, who have business enough in 
the necessary provisions for Life) it is truly a great shame both 
to his Parents and Himself, for a very small portion of any 
Ingenious Art will stop up all those gaps of our Time, either 
Musique, or Painting, or Designing, or Chymistry, or History, 
or Gardening, or twenty other things will do it usefidly and 



pleasandy ; and if he happen to set his afieftions upon Poetry 
(which I do not advise him too immoderately) that will over do 
it ; no wood will be thick enough to hide him from the impor- 
timities of company or business, which would abstract him A-om 
his Beloved. 

O quis nu gelidis sub montibus Mmi ^^ 

Sistatj far ingenti ramorum protegat umbrd? 


Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good ! 

Hail ye PUbeian under wood ! 

Where the Poetique Birds rejoyce, 
And for their quiet Nests and plentious Food, 

Pay with their grateful voice. 


Hail, the poor Muses richest Mannor Seat ! 

Ye Countrey Houses and Retreat, 

Which all the happy Gods so Love, 
That for you oft they quit their Bright and Great 

Metropolis above. 

Here Nature does a House for me ere^ 

Nature the wisest Architect, 

Who those fond Artists does despise 
That can the fair and living Trees negle£t; 

Yet the Dead Timber prize. 


Here let me careless and imthoughtfiil lying. 
Hear the soft winds above me flying, 
With all their wanton Boughs dispute, 

And the more timefiil Birds to both replying 
Nor be my self too Mute. 

A Silver stream shall roul his waters neer. 

Guilt with the Sun-beams here and there 

On whose enamel'd Bank Til walk. 
And see how prettily they Smile, and hear 

How prettily they Talk. 




Ah wretched, and too Solitary Hee 

Who loves not his own Company 1 
He*l feel the weight oPt many a day 

Unless he call in Sin or Vanity 
To help to bear*t away. 

Oh Solitude, first state of Human-kind ! 

Which blest remained till man did find 

Even his own helpers Company. 
As soon as two (alas !) together joyn'd, 

The Serpent nude up Three. 


Though God himself, through coimtless Ages Thee 

His sole Companion chose to be. 

Thee, Sacred Solitude alone. 
Before the Branchy head of Numbers Tree 

Sprang from the Trunk of One. 


Thou (though men think thine an una^ive part) 
Dost break and tame th'unruly heart. 
Which else would know no setled pace. 

Making it move, well mannag'd by thy Art, 
AVith Swiftness and with Cjrace. 


Thou the faint beams of Reasons scattered Light, 

Dost like a Burning-glass unite. 

Dost multiply the feeble Heat, 
And fortifie the strength, till thou dost bright 

And noble Fires beget. 


Whilst this hard Truth I teach, methinks, I see 

The Monster London laush at me, | 

I should at thee too, foolish City, j 

If it were fit to laugh at Misery, I 

But thy Estate I pity. 



Let bm thy wicked men from out thee go. 

And all the Fools that crowd thefe] so, 
Even thou who dost thy Millions boast, 

A Village less then Islington wilt grow, 
A Solitude almost. 


3. Of obscurity. 

J AM ittqtu Divilihus conlingunt gaudia selis^ tftr.EfU 

Nic vixil malt, qui natus mariemqut FtfiUit. '' 

G»d made net pieasures only far the Rich, 
Nor have those men without their share tea liv'J, 
ffho both in Life and Death the tuorld deceived. 
This seems a strange Sentence thus literally translated, and 
looks as if it were in vindication of the men of business (for who 
else can Deceive the world ?) whereas it is in commendation of 
those who live and dye so obscurely, that the world takes no 
notice of them. This Horace calls deceiving the world, and in 
another place uses the same phrase. 

Secretum iter i^ FalUntis semila vita, ^. it. 

The itcrtt tracks of the Deceiving Life. 
■ft is very elegant in Latine, but our English word will hardly 
bear up to that sence, and therefore Mr. Brtom translates it 
very well. 

Or from a Life, lid at it were by stealth. 
Yet we say in our Language, a thing deceives our sight, when 
it posses before us unperceived, and we may say wdl enough 
^out of the same Authour, 

^k Sttnttimii with sleep, tomtimes with wine we strive, 
^H Tbt carts of Life and troubles to Deceive. 
^^ut that is not to deceive the world, but to deceive our selves, ^"jf^ 
as Qmntilian saies, yitam fallert, Ta draw on still, and amuse, ' 
and deceive our Life, till it be advanced insensibly to the btal 
Period, and fall into that Pit which Nature hath prepared for it. 
LThe meaning of all this is no more then that most vulgar 





saving, Bine qui latuitj bene vixitj He has lived well, who has 
lain well hidden. Which if it be a truth, the world (I*le swear) 
is sufficiently deceived : For my part, I think it is, and that the 

fleasantest condition of Life, is in Incognito. What a brave 
Vivilege is it to be free from all Contentions, from all £nvvjn| 
or being Envyed, from recieving and from paying all kind 
of Ceremonies ? It is in my mind, a very delightful pastime^ 
for two good and agreeable friends to travail up and down 
. together, m places where they are by no body known, nor know 
any body. It was the case of Mneas and his AcbattSj when 
they waUct invisibly about the fields and streets of Carthage^ 
Venus her self 

yirg, X. A vail of thickmd Air around them cast^ 

^ That none might knoWj or see them as tbtj past. 

The common story of Demosthenes^ s confession that he had taken 
great pleasure in hearing of a Tanker- woman say as he past; 
This is that Demosthenes^ is wonderful ridiculous from so solid 
an Orator. I my self have often met with that temptation to 
vanity (if it were any) but am so far from finding it any 
pleasure, that it only makes me run faster from the place, till I 
get, as it were out of sight-shot. Democritus relates, and in 
such a manner, as if he gloried in the good fortune and com- 
modity of it, that when he came to Athens no body there did 
so much as take notice of him ; and Epicurus lived there very 
well, that is, Lay hid many years in his Gardens, so famous 
since that time, with his friend Metrodorus : after whose death, 
making in one of his letters a kind commemoration of the 
happiness which they two had injoyed together, he adds at last, 
that he thought it no disparagement to those great felicities of 
their life, that in the midst of the most talk'd-of and Talking 
Country in the world, they had lived so long, not only without 
Fame, but almost without being heard of. And yet within 
a very few years afterward, there were no two Names of men 
more known or more generally celebrated. If we engage into 
a large Acquaintance and various familiarities, we set open our 
gates to the Invaders of most of our time: we expose our life to 
a Quotidian Ague of frigid impertinencies, which would make a 
wise man tremble to think of. Now, as for beinft known 
much by sight, and pointed at, I cannot comprehend the 




honour that lies in that : Whatsoever it he, every Mountebank 
it more then the best Doctor, and the Hangman more then 
Lord Chief Justice of a City. Every creature has it both 
Nature and Art if it be any ways extraordinary. It was as 
often said, This is that Bacephalm, or, This is that Imitaius^ 
when they were led prancing through the streets, as, this is that 
AUxander, or this is that Demitiati ; and truly for the latter, I 
take Incitatus to have bin a much more Honourable Beast then 
his Master, and more deserving the Consulship, then he the 
Empire. I love and commend a true good Fame, because it is 
the shadow of Virtue, not that it doth any good to the Body 
which it accompanies, but 'tis an efficacious shadow, and like 
that of St, Ptitr cures the Diseases of others. The best kinde 
of Glory, no doubt, is that which is refieifted from Honesty, 
such as was the Glory of Cata and ArhtideSy but it was harmful 
10 them both, and is seldom beneficial to any man whilst he 
lives, what it is to him after his death, I cannot say, because, I 
love not Pbibisphy merely notional and conjeilura!, and no 
man who has made the Experiment has been so kind as to 
come back to inform us. Upon the whole matter, I account a 
person who has a moderate Mindc and Fortune, and lives in 
the conversation of two or three agreeable friends, with little 
commerce in the world besides, who is esteemed well enough 
by his few neighbours that know him, and is truly irreproach- 
able by any body, and so after a healthful quiet life, before the 
great inconveniences of old age, goes more silently out of it 
then he came in, (for I would not have him so much as Cry in 
the Exit). This Innocent Deceiver of the world, as Harace 
calls him, this Muta ptnona, I take to have been more happy 
in bis Part, then the greatest Aftors that fill the Stage with 
show and noise, nay, even then Augustui himself, who askt with 
his last breath, Whether he had not played his Fartt very well. 

Seneca, ex T6yeste, 

Aei. 2. Cbor. 

Sfel qukunque volei^ pouns 

AitU culmine lubrico^ &c. 

Upon the slippery tops of bumane State, 
The guilded Pinnacles of Fate, 


Let Others proudly stand, and for a while 

The giddy danger to beeuile. 
With Joy, and with disdain Took down on all, 

Till their Heads turn, and down they fidL 
Me, O ye Gods, on Earth, or else so near 

That I no Fall to Earth may fear, 
And, O ye gods, at a eood distance seat 

From the long Ruuies of the Great. 
Here wrapt in th' Arms of Quiet let me I7; 
Quiet, Companion of Obscurity. 
Here let my Life, with as much silence slide^ 

As Time that measures it does glide. 
Nor let the Breath of Infamy or Fame, 
From town to town Eccho about my Name. 
Nor let my homely Death embroidered be 

With Scutcheon or with El^e. 

An old Plibean let me Dv, 
Alas, all then are such as well as L 

To him, alas, to him, I fear. 
The face of Death will terrible appear: 
Who in his life flattering his senceless pride 
By being known to all the world beside. 
Does not himself, when he is Dying know 
Nor what he is, nor Whither hee*s to ga 

4. Of Agriculture. 

THE first wish of Virgil (as you will find anon by hit 
Verses) was to be a good Philosopher ; the second, a good J 
Husbandman ; and God (whom he seem'd to understand better 
then most of the most learned Heathens) dealt with him just 
as he did with Solomon ; because he prayed for wisdom in the 
first place, he added all things else whicn were subordinately to 
be desir'd. He made him one of the best Philosophers, and 
best Husbandmen, and to adorn and conmiunicate both those 
faculties, the best Poet : He made him besides all this a rich 
man, and a man who desired to be no richer. O F$rtunatw 
nimiuniy V bona qui sua navit : To be a Husbandman, is but a 



retreat Troin the City ; to be a Philosopher, from the world, or 
rather, a Retreat from the world, as it is mans; into the world, 
as it is Gods. But since Nature denies to most men the 
capacity or appetite, and Fortune allows but to a very few the 
opportunities or possibility of applying themselves wholy to 
Philosophy, the best mixture of humane affairs that we can 
malce, are the employments of a Country life. It is, as 
CalumeHa calls it. Res si'ie duhitaliontt praxima, (^ quasi Can- 
sanguinra Sapitntia, The nearest Neighbour, or rather next in Uf.i a. 
Kindred to Philosophy. Farra saycs, the Principles of it are 
the same which Enmus made to be the Principles of all Nature: 
Earth, Water, Air, and the Sun. It does certainly comprehend 
more parts of Philosophy then any one Profession, Art or Science 
in the world besides: and therefore Cuera saies, The pleasures 
of a Husbandman, Mihi ad iapienth vilam prox'tme videntur 
o<ctdtrt. Come very nigh to those of a Philosopher. There is Otumet. 
no other sort of life that affords so many branches of praise to a 
Panegyrist : The Utility of it to a mans self: The Usefulness, 
or rather Necessity of it to all the rest of Mankind: The 
Innocence, the Pleasure, the Antiquity, the Dignity, The 
Utility (I mean plainly the Lucre of it) is not so great now in 
our Nation as arises from Merchandise and the trading of the 
City, from whence many of the best Estates and chief Honours 
of the Kingdom are derived : we have no men now fetcht from 
the Plow to be made Lords, as they were in Reme to be made 
Consuls and Dictators, the reason of which I conceive to be 
from an evil Custom, now grown as strong among us, as if it 
were a Law, which is, that no men put their Children to be 
bred up Apprentices in Agriculture, as in other Trades, but 
such who are so poor, that when they come to be men, they 
have not wherewithall to set up in it, and so can only Farm 
some small parcel of ground, the Rent of which devours all but 
the bare Subsistence of the Tenant: Whilst they who are Pro- 
prietors of the Land, are either too proud, or, for waiit of that 
Icind of Education, too ignorant to improve their Estates, 
though the means of doing it be as casie and certain in this as 
in any other track of Commerce : If there were alwaies two or 
three thousand youths, for seven or eight years bound to this 
Profession, that they might learn ihe whole Art of it, and 
afterwards be enabled to be Masters in it, by a moderate stock : 
c. ti. cc 401 


I cannot doubt but that we should tee as many Alderment 
Estates made in the Country, as now we do out of all kind of 
Merchandizing in the City. There are as many waycs to be 
Rich, and which is better, there is no Possibility to be poor, 
without such negligence as can neither have excuse nor rityj 
for a little ground will without question feed a little family, and 
the supcHluities of Life (which are now in some cases by 
custome made almost necessary) must be supplyed out of tbe 
superabundance of Art and Industry, or contemned by at great 
a Degree of Philosophy. As for the Necessity of this Art, it 
is evident enough, since this can live without all others, and no 
one other without this. This is like Speech, without which 
the Society of men cannot be preserved ; the othen like Figuiti 
and Tropes of Speech which serve only to adorn iL Many 
Nations have lived, and some do still, without any Art but this; 
not so Elegantly, I confess, but still they Live, and almost ill 
the other Arts which are here pradiscd, are beholding to this 
for most of their Materials. The Innocence of this Life is the 
next thing for which I commend it, and if Husbandmen pre- 
serve not that, they arc much to blame, for no men are so firee 
from the TemptatioJis of Iniquity. They live by what they 
can get by Industry from the Earth, and others by what th^ 
can catch by Craft from men. They live upon an Estate 
given them by their Mother, and others upon an Estate cheated 
from their Brethren. They live like Sheep and Kinc, by tbe 
allowances of Nature, and others like Wolves and Foxes by the 
acquisitions of Rapine. And, I hope, I may affirm (without 
any oSencc to the Great} that Sheep and Kine are very lucfiil, 
and that Wolves and Foxes are pernicious creatures. Thcf 
are without dispute of all men the most quiet and least apt to 
be inflamed to the distaurbance of the Common-wealth: their 
manner of Life inclines them, and Interest binds them to lore 
Peace : In our late mad and miserable Civil Wars, all other 
Trades, even to the meanest, set forth whole Troopes, and 
raised up some great Commanders, who became famous ud 
mighty for the mischiefs they had done: But, I do not 
remember the Name of any one Husbandman who had so 
considerable a share in the twenty years ruine of his Country, 
as to deserve tbe Curses of his Country-men : And if greit 
delights be joyn'd with so much Innocence^ I think it is ill done 


r men not to take them here where they sre so tame, and 
ready at hand, rather then hunt for them in Courts and Cities, 
where they arc so wild, and the chase so troublesome and 

We are here among the vast and noble Scenes of Nature; 
we are there among the pitiful shifts of Policy : We walk here 
in the light and open wayes of the Divine Bounty; we grope 
there in the dark and confused Labyrinths of Human Malice: 
Our Senses are here feasted with the clear and genuine taste of 
their Objects, which are all Sophisticated there, and for the 
most part overwhelmed with their contraries. Here Pleasure 
looks (methinks) like a beautiful, constant, and modest Wife; 
it is there an impudent, fickle, and painted Harlot. Here 
is harmless and cheap Plenty, there guilty and expenseftil 

I shall onely instance in one Delight more, the most natural 
and best natur'd of all others, a perpetual companion of the 
Husbandman; and that is, the satisfeftion of looking round 
about him, and seeing nothing but the effects and improve- 
ments of his own Art and Diligence; to be alwayes gathering 
of some Fruits of it, and at the same time to behold others 
ripening, and others budding: to see all his Fields and Gardens 
covered with the beauteous Creatures of his own Industry ; and 
to see, like God, that all his Works are Good. 

Him atqve h'lrtf glomtrantvr Oreadts; ifiii ^M 

Agrnela taciturn perlentani gaitdia peilui. ^| 

On his heart-strings a secret Joy does strike. ■ 

The Antiquity of his Art is certainly not to be contested by 
any other. The three first Men in the World, were a 
" jdner, a Ploughman, and a Grazier; and if any man objeit, 
■at the second of these was a Murtherer, I desire he would 
isider, that as soon as he was so, he quitted our Profession, 
id turn'd Builder. It is for this reason, I suppose, that 
Etcltiiaiticui forbids us to hate Husbandry; because (sayes he) 
the most High has created it. We were all Born to this Art, c-f. ,. 
and taught by Nature to nourish our Bodies by the same Earth 
nut of which they were made, and to which they must return, 
■id pay at last for their sustenance. 
L cc 2 403 





Behold the Original and Primitive Nobility of all those great 
Persons, who are too proud now, not onely to till the Ground, 
but almost to tread upon it. We may taUce what we please of 
Lilies, and Lions Rampant, and Spread-Eaeles in Fields d' Or, 
or d' Argent; but if Heraldry were guided by Reason, a 
Plough in a Field Arable, would be the most Noble and 
Antient Armes. 

All these considerations make me fall into the wonder and 
complaint of Columella^ How it should come to pass that all 
Arts or Sciences, (for the dispute, which is an Art, and which a 
Science, does not belong to the curiosity of us Husbandmen) 
Metaphysicky Physick^ Morality^ Mathematicksy Logicky Rbetmciy 
ice. which are all, I grant, good and useful! faculties, (except 
onely Metaphysick which I do not know whether it be anj 
thing or no) but even f^aulting^ Fencings Dancingy Attiring^ 
Cookery^ Carvings and such like Vanities, should all have 
publick Schools and Masters; and yet that we should never see 
or hear of any man who took upon him the Profession of 
teaching this so pleasant, so virtuous, so profitable, so honour- 
able, so necessary Art. 

A man would think, when he's in serious humour, that 
it were but a vain, irrational and ridiculous thing, for a great 
company of Men and Women to run up and down in a Room 
together, in a hundred several postures and figures, to no 
purpose, and with no design; and therefore Dancing was 
invented first, and onely practised anciently in the Ceremonies 
of the Heathen Religion, which consisted all in Mommery and 
Madness; the latter being the chief glory of the Worship, and 
accounted Divine Inspiration: This, I say, a severe Man would 
think, though I dare not determine so far against so customary 
a part now of good breeding. And yet, who is there among 
our Gentry, that does not entertain a Dancing Master for his 
Children as soon as they are able to walk? But, Did ever any 
Father provide a Tutor for his Son to instruct him betimes in 
the Nature and Improvements of that Land which he intended 
to leave him ? That is at least a superfluity, and this a Defed 
in our manner of Education ; and therefore I could wish (but 
cannot in these times much hope to see it) that one Colledge in 
each University were erected, and appropriated to this study, 
as well as there are to Medecin, and the Civil Law: There 



^Vould be no need of making a Body of Scholars and Fellowcs, 
with certain cjidowmcnts, as in other Colledges; it would 
suffice, if after the manner of Halls in Oxford^ there were only 
four Professors constituted {for it would be too much work for 
onely one Master, or Principal, as they call him there} to teach 
these four parts of it. First, Aratien, and all things relating to 
it. Secondly, Pasturage. Thirdly, Gart/rns, Orchards, yint- 
yardi and JVoods. Fourthly, All parts of Rural Oecanomy^ 
which would contain the Government of Btn, Swine, Poultry, 
Decays, Pondi, &c, and all that which Ibarra calls {''illal'uas 
Pastianfs, together with the Sports of the Field (which ought to 
be looked upon not onely as Pleasures, but as parts of House- 
keeping) and the Domestical conservation and uses of ail that 
is brought in by Industrj' abroad. The business of these Pro- 
fessors should not be, as is commonly praflised in other Arts, 
onely to read Pompous and Superficial Leiffures out of ftrgi/s 
Georgiciei, Pl'ty, Varro or ColumeHa, but to instruct their 
Pupils in the whole Method and course of this study, which 
might be run through perhaps with diligence in a year or twoj 
and the continual succession of Scholars upon a moderate taxa- 
tion for their Diet, Lodging, and Learning, would be a sufficient 
constant revenue for Maintenance of the House and the Pro- 
fessors, who should be men not chosen for the Ostentation of 
Critical Literature, but for solid and experimental Knowledge 
of the things they teach such Men ; so industrious and publick- 
spirited as I conceive Mr. Harilih to be, if the Gentleman be 
yet alive : But it is needless to speak farther of my thoughts of 
this Design, unless the present Disposition of the Age allowed 
more probability of bringing it into execution. What I have 
further to say of the Country Life, shall be borrowed from the 
Poets, who were alwayes the most faithful and afTetftionatc 
friends to it. Poetry was Born atnong the Shepherds. 
Nesda qua Natali talum duktd'ine Musas 
Duiit, isf immemores mn sinh esse sui. 
The Muses still love their own Native place, 
T'has secret Charms which nothing can deface. 

their work; one 

Might as well 

h, no other 


e IS 

proper for 

undertalce to 

1 a Crowd 

midst of N 



make good 


As well might Corn as Verse in Cities grow; 

In vain the thankless Glebe we Plow and Sow, 

Aninst th' unnatural Soil in vain we strive; 

'Tis not a Ground in which these Plants will thrive. 

It will bear nothing but the Nettles or Thomes of Satyn^ 
which grow most naturallv in the worst Earth; And therefore 
almost all Poets, except tnose who were not able to eat Broul 
without the bounty of Great men, that is, without what thejr 
could ztx by Flattering of them, have not onelv withdrawn 
themselves from the Vices and Vanities of the Grand World 
(Pariter vitiisque yocisqui Altius humanis exeruert caput) into the 
innocent happiness of a retired Life; but have commended and | 
adorned nothing so much by their Ever-living Poems. HmUy 
was the first or second Poet in the World that remaines yet 
extant (if Homgry as some think, preceded him, but I rather 
believe they were Contemporaries) and he is the first Writer 
too of the Art of Husbandry: He has contributed (sayes 
Columella) not a little to our Profession; I suppose he means 
not a little Honour, for the matter of his Instrudions is not 
very important: His great Antiquity is visible through the 
Gravity and Simplicity of his Stile. The most Acute ot all his 
sayings concerns our purpose very much, and is couched in the 
reverend obscurity of an Oracle. 'tt\€6v fffucrv Uavrb^* The 
half is more then the whole. The occasion of the speech 
is this; His Brother Perses had by corrupting some great men 
(Baaikfja^ ^a>po<pdyov^y Great Bribe-eaters he calls them) 
gotten from him the half of his Estate. It is no Matter, 
(says he) they have not done me so much prejudice, as thejr 

Hijinoi, ovBi laaa-iP 8aq) llXiop "Hjuuav JIavT6^, 
OvS" 8aov iv fiaXdxif t€ koX da^oiXtp fiij 8v€iap, 
Kpin^avre^ yiip i'Xfivai 0€ol fiiov dvOpmrouri. 

Unhappy they to whom God has not revealM 
By a strong Light which must their sence controle, 
That halfe a great Estate's more then the whole: 
Unhappy, from whom still conceal'd does lie 
Of Roots and Herbs, the wholesome Luxurie. 



This I conceive to have been Honest Hemiis meaning. 
From Homtr we must not cxpeft much concerning our a^irs. 
He was Blind and could neither work in the Countrcy, nor 
enjoy the pleasures of it, his helpless Poverty was likeliest to be 
sustained in the richest places, he was to delight the Grcaani 
with fine tales of the War^ and adventures of their Ancestors; 
his Subje^ removed him from alt Commerce with us, and yet, 
meChinks, he made a shift to show his good will a little. For 
though he could do us no Honour in the person of his Hira 
Vliisei {much less of AchiUii) because his whole time was con- 
sumed in Wars and Voyages, yet he makes his Father Latrles a 
Gardener all that while, and seeking his Consolation for the 
absence of his son in the pleasure of Planting and even Dunging 
his own grounds. Ye see he did not contemn us Peasants, 
nay, so fiir was he from that insolence, that he always stiles 
Eumirus, who kept the Hogs with wonderful respeft Aiov 
v^opffov. The Divine Swine-herd he could ha' done no more 
for Ment/au! or jfgamfmniin. And Thncritus (a very ancient 
Poet, but he was one of our own Tribe, for he wrote nothing 
but Pastorals) gave the same Epithete to an Husbandman 
Afiti^tTo A(o; aypasT-ti. The Divine Husbandman replyed 

.to Htrculis, who was but Ato? Himself. These were Civil 
Gretts\ and who understood the Dignity of our Calling! 
unong the Rsmnns we have in the first place, our truly Divine 
Firgi/, who, though by the favour of Mecienas and Augustus, he 
might have been one of the chief men of Ramr, yet chose 
rather to employ much of his time in the exercise, and much of 
his immortal wit in the praise and instrudlions of a Rustique 
Life, who though he had written before whole Books of 
Pastorals and Geargiques could not abstain in his great and 
Imperial Poem from describing Evander^ one of his best Princes, 
as living just after the homely manner of an ordinary Countrey- 
man. He seats him in a Throne of Maple, and lays him but 
upon a Bears skin, the Kinc and Oxen are lowing in his Court 
yard, the Birds under the Eeves of his Window call him up in 
the morning, and when he goes abroad, only two Dogs go 
along with him for his guard: at last when he brings Aineas 
into his Royal Cottage, he makes him say this memorable 
complement, greater then eier yet was spoken at the Escuria/, 

^the Louvre, or our IVhitthall. 



Hoc {inquit) Hmina vlSfor 

Akidis subiitj hac ilium Rigia cepit^ 

Audiy Hospesy contemmri opesj (st te quo^ dignum 

Fingi DiOy nbusque vini non aspir igems. 

This humble Roof, this rustique Court (said He) 
RcccivM Alcides crown*d with viftory. 
Scorn not (Great Guest) the steps where he has trod, 
But contemn Wealth, and imitate a God. 

The next Man whom we are much obliged to, both for his 
Dodtrine and Example, is the next best Poet in the world to 
Virgil\ his dear friend Horaa^ who when Augustus had desired 
Mecitnas to perswade him to come and live domestically, and 
at the same Table with him, and to be Secretary of State of 
the whole World under him, or rather joyntlv with him, for he 
says, ut nos in Epistolis scribendis adjuvet^ could not be tempted 
to forsake his Sabin^ or Tiburtin Mannor, for so rich and so 
glorious a trouble. There was never, I think, such an example 
as this in the world, that he should have so much moderation 
and courage as to refuse an offer of such greatness, and the 
Emperour so much generosity and good Nature as not to be at 
all offended with his refusal, but to retain still the same kind- 
ness, and express it often to him in most friendly and familiar 
Letters, part of which are still extant. If I should produce all 
the passages of this excellent Author upon the several Subjefb 
which I treat of in this Book, I must be obliged to translate half 
his works 5 of which I may say more truly than in my opinion he 
did of Horner^ Qui quid sit pu/chrunty qutd Turpe^ quid utiUy quid 
noriy plenius faf melius ChrysippOy faf Crantore dicit. I shall content 
my self upon this particular Theme with three only, one out of 
his OdeSy the other out of his SatyrSy the third out of his [E]pistleSy 
and shall forbear to collect the suffrages of all other Poets, , 
which may be found scattered up and down through all their / 
writings, and especially in Martials. But I must not omit to 
make some excuse for the bold undertaking of my own un- 
skilful Pencil upon the beauties of a Face that has been drawn 
before by so many great Masters, especially, that I should dare 
to do it in Latine verses (though of another kind) and have the 
confidence to Translate them. I can only say that I love the 
Matter, and that ought to cover many faults ; and that I run 
not to contend with those before me, but follow to applaud them. 



J \. 

\ •>- 

^. >>> X . " Firg. Georg. 

O firtunatus nimiumy &c. 
A Translation out of VirgiL 

OH happy, (if his Happiness he knows) 
The Country Swain, on whom kind Hcav*n bestows 
At home all Riches that wise Nature needs; 
Whom the just earth with easie plenty feeds. 
/ *Tis true, no morning Tide of Clients comes. 
And fills the painted Chanels of his rooms, 
Adoring the rich Figures, as they pass. 
In Tap*stry wrought, or cut in living brass; 
Nor is his Wooll superfluously dy'd 
With the dear Povson of Assyrian pride: 
Nor do Arabian Perfumes vainly spoil 
The Native Use, and Sweetness of his Oyl. 
Instead of these, his calm and harmless life 
Free from th' Alarms of Fear, and storms of Strife, 
Does with substantial blessedness abound. 
And the soft wings of Peace cover him round: 
Through artless Grots the murmuring waters glide; 
Thick Trees both against Heat and Cold provide, 
From whence the Birds salute him; and his ground 
With lowing Herds, and Meeting Sheep does sound; 
And all the Rivers, and the Forests nigh, 
>Both Food and Game, and Exercise supply. 
Here a well hard'ned active youth we see. 
Taught the great Art of chearful Poverty. 
Here, in this place alone, there still do shine 
Some streaks of Love, both humane and Divine; 
From hence Astraa took her flight, and here 
Still her last Foot-steps upon Earth appear. 
*Tis true, the first desire which does controul 
All the inferiour wheels that move my Soul, 
Is, that the Muse me her high Priest would make; 
Into her holyest Scenes of Myst'ry take, 



And open there to my mind's purged eye 

Those wonders which to Sense the Gods deny; 

How in the Moon such change of shapes is round: 

The Moon, the changing Worlds eternal bound. 

What shakes the solid &urth, what strong disease 

Dares trouble the firm Centre's antient ease; 

What makes the Sea retreat, and what advance: 

f^arieties too regular for chance. 

What drives the Chariot on of Winters light. 

And stops the lazy Waggon of the night. 

But if my dull and frozen Blood deny, 

To send forth Sp'rits that raise a Soul so high ; 

In the next place, let Woods and Rivers be 

My quiet, though unglorious destiny. 

In Life's cool vale let my low Scene be laid; 

Cover me Gods, with Tempers thickest shade. 

Happy the Man, I grant, thrice happy he 

Who can through gross effects their causes see: 

Whose courage from the deeps of knowledg springs, 

Nor vainly fears inevitable things; 

But does his walk of virtue calmly go. 

Through all th'allarms of Death and Hell below. 

Happy ! but next such Conquerours, happy they. 

Whose humble Life lies not in fortunes way. 

They unconcern'd from their safe distant seat, 

Behold the Rods and Scepters of the great. 

The quarrels of the mighty without fair. 

And the descent of forein Troops they hear. 

Nor can even Rome their steddy course misguide, 

With all the lustre of her perishing Pride. 

Them never yet did strife or avarice draw, 

Into the noisy markets of the Law, 

The Camps of Gowned War, nor do they live 

By rules or forms that many mad men give. 

Duty for Natures Bounty they repay. 

Ana her sole Laws religiously obey. 

Some with bold Labour plow the faithless main. 
Some rougher storms in Princes Courts sustain. 
Some swell up their sleight sails with pop'ular fame, 
Charm'd with the foolish whistlings of a Name. 



Some their vain wealth to Earth again commit; 
With endless cares some brooding o're it sit. 
Country and Friends are by some Wretches sold, 
To lie on Tyrian Beds and drink in Gold; 
No price too high for profit can be shown; 
Not Brothers blood, nor hazards of their own. 
Around the World in search of it they roam, 
It makes ev'n their Antipodes their home; 
Mean while, the prudent Husbandman is found, 
In mutual duties striving with his ground. 
And half the year he care of that does tatc, 
That half the year grateful returns does make. 
Each fertil moneih does some new gifts present, 
And with new work his industry content. 
This, the young Lamb, that the soft Fleece doth yield. 
This, loads with Hay, and that, with Corn the Field: 
All sorts of Fruit crown the rich Autumns Pride: 
And on a swelling Hill's warm stony side, 
The powerful Princely Purple of the Vine, 
Twice dy'd with the redoubled Sun, does shine. 
In th' Evening to a fair ensuing day, 
With joy he sees his Flocks and Krds to play; 
\ And loaded Kyne about his Cottage stand. 
Inviting with known sound the Milkers hand; 
And when from wholsom labour he doth come. 
With wishes to be there, and wish't for home. 
He meets at door the softest humane blisses, 
His chast Wives welcom, and dear Childrens kisses. 
When any Rural Holy dayes invite 
His Genius forth to innocent delight. 
On Earth's fair bed beneath some sacred shade. 
Amidst his equal friends carelesly laid, 
He sings thee Bacchut Patron of the Vine, 
The Beechen Boul fomes with a floud of Wine, 
Not to the loss of reason or of strength : 
To a<^ive games and manly sport at length, 
Their mirth ascends, and with fill'd veins they see, 
Who can the best at better trials be. 
Such was the Life the prudent Sabim chose, 
From such the old Hrirurian virtue rose. 


Such, Remus and the God his Brother led. 

From such firm footing Rome mw the World's head. 

Such was the Life that ev'n till now does raise 

The honour of poor Sa turns golden dajres: 

Before Men born of Earth and buried there, 

Let in the Sea their mortal fate to share. 

Before new wayes of perishing were sought. 

Before unskilful Death on Anvils wrought. 

Before thpse Beasts which humane Life sustain. 

By Men, unless to the Gods use were slain. 

HoraL Epodon. 

Beams tile qui procul^ &c. 

HAppy the Man whom bounteous Gods allow 
With his own Hands Paternal Grounds to plough! 
Like the first golden Mortals Happy he 
From Business and the cares of Money free! 
No humane storms break off at Land his sleep. 
No loud Alarms of Nature on the Deep, 
From all the cheats of Law he lives secure, 
Nor does th*aflFronts of Palaces endure; 
Sometimes the beauteous Marriagable Vine 
He to the lusty Bridegroom Elm does joyn ; 
Sometimes he lops the barren Trees aroimd. 
And grafts new Life into the fruitful wound; 
Sometimes he sheers his Flock, and sometimes he 
Stores up the Golden Treasures of the Bee. 
He sees his lowing Herds walk oVe the Plain, 
Whilst neighbouring Hills low back to them again: 
And when the Season Rich as well as Gay, 
All her Autumnal Bounty does display. 
How is he pleas'd th' encreasing Use to see. 
Of his well trusted Labours bend the tree? 
Of which large shares, on the glad sacred dates 
He gives to Friends, and to the Gods repays. 
With how much joy do's he beneath some shade 
By aged trees rev'rend embraces made, 



His careless head on the fresh Green recline. 
His head uncharged with Fear or with Design. 
By him a River constantly complaines, 
The Birds above rejoyce with various strains 
And in the solemn Scene their Orgies keep 
Like Dreams mixt with the Gravity of sleep, 
Sleep which does alwaies there for entrance wait 
And nought within against it shuts the gate. 

Nor does the roughest season of the dcy, 
Or sullen Jovi all sports to him deny, 
He runs the Ma%is of the nimble Hare, 
His well-mouthM Dogs glad concert rends the air. 
Or with game bolder, and rewarded more, 
He drives into a Toil, the foaming Bore, 
Here flies the Hawk t' assault, and there the Net 
To intercept the travailing foul is set. 
And all his malice, all his craft is shown 
In innocent wars, on beasts and birds alone. 
This is the life ftom all misfortimes free. 
From thee the Great one. Tyrant Love, from Thee; 
And if a chaste and clean, though homely wife 
Be added to the blessings of this Life, 
Such as the antient Sun-burnt Sahim were. 
Such as Apulioy frugal still, does bear, 
Who makes her Children and the house her care, 
And joyfully the work of Life does share. 
Nor thinks herself too noble or too fine 
To pin the sheepfold or to milch the Kine, 
Who waits at door against her Husband come 
From rural duties, late, and wearied home, 
Where she receives him with a kind embrace, 
A chearful Fire, and a more chearful Face: 
And fills the Boul up to her homely Lord, 
And with domestique plenty loads the board. 
Not all the lustful shel-fish of the Sea, 
Drest by the wanton hand of Luxurie, 
Nor Ortalam nor Godwits nor the rest 
Of costly names that glorify a Feast, 
Are at the Princely tables better cheer. 
Then Lamb and Klid, Lettice and Olives here. 



The Country Mouse. 
A Paraphrase upon Horace 2 Booky Satyr. 6, 


^T the large foot of a fair hollow tree. 

Close to plow*d mund, seated commodiouslj, 
His anticnt and Hereditary House, 
There dwelt a good substantial Country-Mouse: 
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main, 
Yet, one, who once did nobly entertain 
A City Mouse well coated, sleek, and gay, 
A Mouse of high degree, which lost his way. 
Wantonly walking forth to take the Air, 
And arrivM early, and belighted there. 
For a days lodging: the good hearty Hoast, 

gThe antient plenty of his hall to boast) 
id all the stores produce, that might excite. 
With various tasts, the Courtiers appetite. 
Fitches and Beans, Peason, and Oats, and Wheat, 
And a large Chesnut, the delicious meat 
Which *Jovi himself, were he a Mouse, would eat. 
And for a Haut goust there was mixt with these 
The swerd of Bacon, and the coat of Cheese. 
The precious Reliques, which at Harvest, he 
Had gather'd from the Reapers luxurie. 
Freely (said he) fall on and never spare, 
The bounteous Gods will for to morrow care. 
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay. 
And to their Genius sacrific'd the day. 
Yet the nice guest's Epicurean mind, 
(Though breeding made him civil seem and kind) 
Despis'd this Country feast, and still his thought 
Upon the Cakes and Pies of London wrought. 
Your bounty and civility (said he) 
Which I'm surpriz'd in these rude parts to see, 
Shews that the Gods have given you a mind, 
Too noble for the £cite which here you find. 



Why should it Soul, so virtuous and so great. 
Lose it self thus in an Obscure retreat? 
Let savage Beasts todg in a Country Den, 
You should see Towns, and Manners know, and men: 
And taste ihe generous Lux'ury of the Court, 
Where all the Mice of quality resort; 
Where thousand beauteous shees about you move, 
And by high fere, are plyant made to love. 
We all e*re long must render up our breath, 
No cave or hole can shelter us from death. 
Since Life is so uncertain, and so short, 
Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport. 
Come, worthy Sir, come with me, and partake, 
AH the great things that mortals happy make. 
i Alas, what virtue hath sufficient Arms, 
T'opposc bright Honour, and soft Pleasures charms? 
What wisdom can their magick force repel? 
It draws this reverend Hermit from his Cel. 
It was the time, when witty Poets tell, 
That Phcebus into Thetis bmm fill : 
She bluiht at Jint, and thtn put out iht light. 
And drew the madeit Curtains ef the night. 
Plainly, the troth to lell, the bun was set, 
When to the Town our wearied Travellers get, 
To a Lords house, as Lordly as can be 
Made for the use of Pride and Luxury, 
They come; the gentle Courtier at the door 
Stops and will hardly enter in before. 
But 'tis, Sir, your command, and being so, 
I 'm sworn t' obedience, and so in they go. 
Behind a hanging in a spacious room, 
(The richest work of Mortclakes noble Loom) 
They wait awhile their wearied limbs to rest, 
Till silence should invite them to their feast. 
jtbottt tht hour thai Cynthia's Sihrr light. 
Had tauch'd the pale Aieridies ef the night; 
At last the various Supper being done, 
It happened that the Company was gone, 
Into a room remote. Servants and all. 
To please their nobles fancies with a Ball. 


Our hoet leads forth his stranger, and do's find. 
All fitted to the bounties of his mind. 
Still on the Table half fill'd dishes stood, 
And with delicious bits the floor was strow'd. 
The courteous mouse presents him with the best, 
And both with fat varieties are blest, 
Th' industrious Peasant every where does range. 
And thanks the gods for his Life's happy change. 
Loe, in the midst of a well fraited Pye, 
They both at last dutted and wanton lye. 
When see the sad Reverse of prosperous fate, 
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait. 
With hideous noise, down the rude servants come. 
Six dogs before run barking into th' room ; 
The wretched eluttons fly with wild affright. 
And hate the fulness which retards their flight. 
Our trembling Peasant wishes now in vain. 
That Rocks and Mountains cover'd him again. 
Oh how the chanee of his poor life he curst I 
This, of all lives (said he) is sure the worst. 
Give me again, ye godsy my Cave and wood; 
With peace, let tares and acorns be my food. 

A Paraphrase upon the lo^ Epistle of the first 

Book of Horace. 


Horace to Fuscus Aristius. 

Ealth, from the lover of the Country me. 
Health, to the lover of the City thee, 
A difference in our souls, this only proves. 
In all things else, w' agree like marryed doves. 
But the warm nest, and crowded dove-house thou 
Dost like; I loosly fly from bough to bough. 
And Rivers drink, and all the shining day. 
Upon fair Trees, or mossy Rocks I play; 



In fine, I live and reign when I retire 
From all that you equal with Heaven admire. 
Like one at last from the Priests service fled, 
Loathing the honie'd Cakes, I long for Bread. 
< Would I a house for happines ereft. 
Nature alone should be the Architect. 
She'd build it more convenient, then great, 

\.And doubtless in the Country choose her seat. 
Is there a place, doth better helps supply, 
Against the wounds of Winters cruelty r 
Is there an Ayr that gentl'er does asswage 
The mad Celestial Dogs, or Lyons rage ? 
Is it not there that sleep (and only there) 
Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear? 
Does art through pipes, a purer water bring. 
Then that which nature straines into a spring? 

/'Can all your Tap'stries, or your Pidlures show 
More b^uties then in herbs and flowers do grow? 
Fountains and trees our wearied Pride do please, 

\ Even in the midst of gilded Palaces. 

And in your towns that prospect gives delight. 
Which opens roimd the country to our sight. 
Men to the good, from which they rashly fly. 
Return at last, and their wild Luxury 
Does but in vain with those true joyes contend. 
Which Nature did to mankind recommend. 
The man who changes gold for burnisht Brass, 
Or small right Gems, for larger ones of glass : 
Is not, at length, more certain to be made 
Ridiculous, and wretched by the trade. 
Than he, who sells a solid good, to buy 
The painted goods of Pride and Vanity. 
If thou be wise, no glorious fortune choose. 
Which *tis but pain to keep, yet grief to loose. 
For, when we place even trifles, in the heart. 
With trifles too, unwillingly we part. 
An humble Roof, plain bed, and homely board. 
More clear, untainted pleasures do aSbrd, 
Then all the Tumult of vain greatness brings 
To Kings, or to the favorites of Kings. 

C. II. DD 417 


The horned Deer by Nature armM so well, 
Did with the Horse in common pasture dwell; 
And when thev fought, the field it alwares wan, 
Till the ambitious Horse begg'd help of Man, 
And took the bridle, and thenceforth did reign 
Bravely alone, as Lrord of all the plain : 
But never after could the Rider get 
From off his back, or from his mouth the bit. 
So they, who poverty too much do fear, 
T' avoid that weight, a greater burden bear ; 
That they might row'r above their equals have. 
To cruel Masters they themselves enslave. 
For Gold, their Liberty exchanged we see. 
That fairest flow'r, which crowns Humanity. 
And all this mischief does upon them light. 
Only, because they know not how, aright. 
That great, but secret, happiness to prize. 
That's laid up in a Little, for the Wise: 
That is the best, and easiest Estate, 
Which to a man sits close, but not too strait; 
*Tis like a shooe ; it pinches, and it burns. 
Too narrow ; and too large it overturns. 
My dearest friend, stop thy desires at last. 
And chearfuUy enjoy the wealth thou hast. 
And, if me still seeking for more you see. 
Chide, and reproach, despise and laugh at me. 
Money was made, not to command our will. 
But all our lawful pleasures to fulfil. 
Shame and wo to us, if we' our wealth obey ; 
The Horse doth with the Horse-man nm away. 



The Country Life. 

Libr. 4. Plantarum. 

BLcst be the man (and blest he is) whom[e're] 
(Plac*d far out of the roads of Hope or Fear) 
A little Field, and little Garden feeds; 
The Field gives all that Frugal Nature needs, 
The wealthy Garden liberally bestows 
All she can ask, when she luxurious grows. 
The specious inconveniences that wait 
Upon a life of Business, and of State, 
He sees (nor does the sight disturb his rest) 
By Fools described, by wicked men possest. 
Thus, thus (and this deserv'd great flrgils praise) 
The old Corycian Yeom[a]n past his daies, 
Thus his wise life Abdolonymus spent: 
Th' Ambassadours which the great Emp'rour sent 
To ofier him a Crown, with wonder foimd 
The reverend Gard'ner howing of his Ground, 
Unwillingly and slow and discontent, 
From his lovM Cottage, to a Throne he went? 
And oft he stopt in his tryumphant way. 
And oft lookt back, and oft was heard to say 
Not without sighs, Alas, I there forsake 
A happier Kingdom then I go to take. 
Thus Aglaiis (a man unknown to men. 
But the gods knew and therefore lov'd him Then) 
Thus liv*d obscurely then without a Name, 
Aglaiis now consign'd t* eternal Fame. 
For GygeSy the rich King, wicked and great, 
Presum d at wise Apollos Delphick seat 
Presum'd to ask. Oh thou, the whole Worlds Eye, 
See'st thou a Man, that Happier is then I ? 
The God, who scorn'd to flatter Man, reply'd, 
Aglaiis Happier is. But Gyges cry^d^ 
In a proud rage. Who can that AglaUs be? 
We have heard as yet of no such King as Hee. 

DD2 419 


And true it was through the whole Earth around 
No King of such a Name was to be found. 
Is some old Hero of that name alive, 
Who his high race does from the Gods derive ? 
Is it some mighty General that has done, 
Wonders in fight, and God-like honours wone ? 
Is it some m[a]n of endless wealth, said he? 
None, none of these ; who can this AglaUs bee ? 
After long search and vain inquiries past. 
In an obscure Arcadian Vale at last, 
(The Arcadian life has always shady been. 
Near Sopho^s Town (which he but once had seen) 
This AglaUs who Monarchs Envy drew, 
Whose Happiness the Gods stood witness too. 
This mighty AglaUs was labouring found. 
With his own Hands in his own little ground. 

So, gracious God, (if it may lawful be. 
Among those foolish gods to mention Thee) 
So let me adl, on such a private stage. 
The last dull Scenes of my declining Age ; 
After long toiles and Voyages in vain. 
This quiet Port let my tost Vessel gain, 
Of Heavenly rest, this Earnest to me lend. 
Let my Life sleep, and learn to love her End. 

The Garden. 

To J. Evelyn Esquire. 

I Never had any other desire so strong, and so like to 
Covetousness as that one which I have had always, that 
I might be master at last of a small house and large garden, 
with very moderate conveniencies joyned to them, and there 
dedicate the remainder of my life only to the culture of them 
and study of Nature, 

And there (with no design beyond my wall) whole and 

in tire to lye. 
In no unadive Ease, and no unglorious Poverty. 



Or as f^irgil has said, Shorter and Better for me, that I 
might there Studiis florere ignobilis otii (though I could wish 
that he had rather said, Nobtlis otii^ when he spoke of his own) 
But several accidents of my ill fortune have disappointed me 
hitherto, and do still, of that felicity ; for though I have made 
the first and hardest step to it, by abandoning all ambitions and 
hopes in this World, and by retiring from the noise of all 
business and almost company, yet I stick still in the Inn of a 
hired House and Garden, among Weeds and Rubbish ; and 
without that plesantest work of Human Industry, the Im- 
provement of something which we call (not very properly, but 
yet we call) Our Own. I am gone out from Sodoniy but I am 
not yet arrived at my Little Zoar. O let me escape thither {Is it 
not a Little one ?) and my Soul shall live, I do not look back 
yet ; but I have been forced to stop, and make too many halts. 
You may wonder. Sir, (for this seems a little too extravagant 
and Pindarical for Prose) what I mean by all this Preface ; 
It is to let you know. That though I have mist, like a 
Chymist, my great End, yet I account my afiedlions and 
endeavours well rewarded by something that I have met with 
by the By ; which is, that they have procured to me some part 
in their kindness and esteem ; and thereby the honour of having 
my Name so advantagiously recommended to Posterity, by the 
Epistle you are pleased to prefix to the most useful Book that 
has been written in that kind, and which |is to last as long as 
Moneths and Years. 

Among many other Arts and Excellencies which you enjoy, I 
am glad to find this Favourite of mine the most predominant. 
That you choose this for your Wife, though you have hundreds 
of other Arts for your Concubines ; Though you know them, 
and beget Sons upon them all (to which you are rich enough to 
allow great Legacies) yet the issue of this seemes to be designed 
by you to the main of the Estate; you have taken most 
pleasure in it, and bestow'd most charges upon its Education : 
and I doubt not to see that Book, which you are pleased to 
Promise to the World, and of which you have given us a Large 
Earnest in your Calendar, as Accomplisht, as any thing can be 
expelled from an Extraordinary IVity and no ordinary Expences, 
and a long Experience. I know no body that possesses more 
private happiness then you do in your Garden; and yet no 



mm who makes his happiness more publick, by a free com- 
mnnicatioo of the An and Knowledge of it to others. All that 
I m J fdf am able ]ret to do, is onely to recommend to Mankind 
the search of that Fdicity, which you Instrudl them how to 
Find and to Enjoj. 


Happj art Thou, whom God does bless 
With the full choice of thine own Happiness ; 

And happier yet, because thou'rt blest 

With prudence, how to choose the best : 
In Books and Gardens thou hast plac'd aright 

(Things which thou well dost imderstand ; 
And both dost make with thy laborious hand) 

Thy noble, innocent delight: 
And in thy virtuous Wife, where thou again dost meet 

Both pleasures more refin'd and sweet : 

The fiiirest Garden in her Looks, 

And in her Mind the wisest Books. 
Oh, Who would change these soft, yet solid joys. 

For empty shows and scnceless noys; 

And all which rank Ambition breeds, 
Which seem such beauteous Flowers, and are such poisonous 
Weeds ? 


When God did Man to his own Likeness make. 
As much as Clay, though of the purest kind. 

By the great Potters art rcfin'd; 

Could the Divine Impression take. 

He thought it fit to place him, where 

A kind of Heaven too did appear. 
As hr as Earth could such a Likeness bear : 

That man no happiness might want. 
Which Earth to her first Master could afford; 

He did a Garden for him plant 
By the quick Hand of his Omnipotent Word. 
As the chief Help and Joy of human life. 
He gave him the first Gift ; first, ev'n before a Wife. 




For Grod, the universal Archite£l, 
'Thad been as easie to ereft 

A Louvre or Escurial, or a Tower 

That might with Heav'n communication hold, 

As Babel vainly thought to do of old : 
He wanted not the skill or power, 
In the Worlds Fabrick those were shown, 

And the Materials were all his own. 

But well he knew what place would best agree 

With Innocence, and with Felicity: 

And we elsewhere still seek for them in vain, 

If any part of either yet remain \ 

IS any part of either we expe£t. 

This may our Judgment in the search direct ; 

God the first Garden made, and the first City, Cain. 

Oh blessed shades I O gentle cool retreat 

From all th' inmioderate Heat, 
In which the frandck World does Burn and Sweat! 
This does the Lion-Star, Ambitions ragej 
This Avarice, the Dogstars Thirst asswage; 
Every where else their fatal power we see. 
They make and rule Mans wretched Destiny: 

They neither Set, nor Disappear, 

But tjrrannize o're all the Year; 
Whilst we ne*re feel their Flame or Influence here. 

The Birds that dance from Bough to Bough, 

And Sing above in every Tree, 

Are not from Fears and Cares more free, 
Then we who Lie, or Sit, or Walk below. 

And should by right be Singers too. 
What Princes Quire of Musick can excell 

That which within this shade does dwell ? 

To which we nothing Pay or Give, 

They like all other Poets live, 
Without reward, or thanks for their obliging pains; 

*Tis well if they become not Prey : 



The whis[t]ling Winds add their less artfiiU strains, 
And a grave Base the murmuring Fountains play ; 
Nature does all this Harmony bestow, 

But to our Plants, Arts Musick too, 
The Pipe, Theorbo, and Guitarr we owe ; 
The Lute it self, which once was Green and Mute, 

When Orpheus strook th' inspired Lute, 

The Trees danc'd round, and understood 

By Sympathy the Voice of Wood. 


These are the Spels that to kind Sleep invite. 
And nothing does within resistance make. 

Which yet we moderately take; 

Who would not choose to be awake. 
While he's encompast round with such delight. 
To th* Ear, the Nose, the Touch, the Tast & Sight ? 
When yenus would her dear Ascanlus keep 
A Prisoner in the Downy Bands of Sleep, 
She Od'rous Herbs and Flowers beneath him ^read 

As the most soft and sweetest Bed; 
Not her own Lap would more have charm'd his Head. 
Who, that has Reason, and his Smell, 
Would not among Roses and Jasmin dwell. 

Rather then all his Spirits choak 
With Exhalations of Durt and Smoak ? 

And all th' uncleanness which does drown 
In Pestilential Clouds a populous Town ? 
The Earth it self breaths better Perfumes here. 
Then all the Fcmal Men or Women there, 
Not without cause, about them bear. 


When Epicurus to the World had taught. 
That Pleasure was the chiefest Good, 

(And was perhaps i'th' right, if rightly understood) 
His Life he to his l5o6lrine brought, 

And in a Gardens shade that Sovereign Pleasure sought: 

Whoever a true Epicure would be, 

May there find cheap and virtuous Luxurie. 



Fitel&us his Table, which did hold 
As many Creatures as the Ark of old: 
That Fiscal Table, to which every day 
All Countries did a constant Tribute pay, 
Could nothing more delicious afford, 

Then Natures Liberalitie, 
Helpt with a little Art and Industry, 
Allows the meanest Gard'ners board. 
The wanton Tast no Fish, or Fowl can choose. 
For which the Grape or Melon she would lose. 
Though all th' Inhabitants of Sea and Air 
Be listed in the Gluttons bill of Fare ; 

Yet still the Fruits of Earth we see 
PIac*d the Third Story high in all her Luxury. 

But with no Sence the Garden does comply; 
None courts, or flatters, as it does the Eye: 
When the great Hebrew King did almost strain 
The wond'rous Treasures of his Wealth and Brain, 
His Royal Southern Guest to entertain; 

Though she on Silver Floores did tread. 
With bright Assyrian Carpets on them spread. 
To hide the Metals Poverty. 

Though she look'd up to Roofs of Gold, 

And nought around her could behold 
But Silk and rich Embrodery, 
And Babylonian Tapestry, 

And wealthy Hirams Princely Dy: 
Though Ophirs Starry Stones met every where her Eye; 
Though She her self, and her gay Host were drest 
With all the shining glories of the East ; 
When lavish Art her costly work had done. 

The honour and the Prize of Bravery 
Was by the Garden from the Palace won ; 
And every Rose and Lilly there did stand 

Better attir'd by Natures hand: 
The case thus judgd against the King we see. 
By one that would not be so Rich, though Wiser far then He. 





Nor does this happy place onely dispence 

Such various Pleasures to the Sence; 
Here Health it self does live, 
That Salt of Life, which does to all a relish give, 
Its standing Pleasure, and Intrinsick Wealth, 
The Bodies Virtue, and the Souls good Fortune Health. 
The Tree of Life, when it in Eden stood. 
Did its immortal Head to Heaven rear; 
It lasted a tall Cedar till the Flood ; 
Now a small thorny Shrub it does appear ; 

Nor will it thrive too every where: 

It alwayes here is freshest seen; 

*Tis onelv here an Ever-green. 

If through the strong and beauteous Fence 

Of Temperance and Innocence, 
And wholsome Labours, and a quiet Mind, 

Any Diseases passage find. 

They must not think here to assail 
A Land unarm'd, or without a Guard; 
They must fight for it, and dispute it hard. 

Before they can prevail: 

Scarce any Plant is growing here 
Which against Death some Weapon does not bear. 

Let Cities boast. That they provide 

For Life the Ornaments of rride; 

But 'tis the Country and the Field, 

That furnish it with StafFe and Shield. 

Where does the Wisdom and the Power Divine 
In a more bright and sweet Reflection shine? 
Where do we finer strokes and colours see 
Of the Creators Real Poetry, 

Then when we with attention look 
Upon the Third Dayes Volume of the Book? 
If we could open and intend our Eye, 

We all like Moses should espy 
Ev'n in a Bush the radiant Deitie. 



But we despise these his Inferiour waves, 
(Though no less fiill of Miracle and Praise) 

Upon the Flowers of Heaven we gaze; 
The SL^ of Earth no wonder in us rlise, 

Though these perhaps do more then they, — 

The life of Mankind sway. 
Although no part of mighty Nature be 
More stor'd with Beauty, rower, and Mystcrie; 
Yet to encourage human Industrie, 
God has so ordered, that no other part 
Such Space, and such Dominion leaves for Art. 


We no where Art do so triumphant see. 

As when it Grafs or Buds the Tree; 
In other things we count it to excell, 
If it a Docile Schollar can appear 
To Nature, and but imitate her well; 
It over-rules, and is her Master here. 
It imitates her Makers Power Divine, 
And changes her sometimes, and sometimes does refine: 
It does, like Grace, the Fallen Tree restore 
To its blest state of Paradise before: 
Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 
Ore all the Vegetable World command? 
And the wild Giants of the Wood receive 

What Law he's pleas'd to give ? 
He bids th* il-natur'd Crab produce 
The gentler Apples Winy Juice; 

The golden fruit that worthy is 

Of Galatea*s purple kiss; 

He does the savage Hawthorn teach 

To bear the Medlar and the Pear, 

He bids the rustick Plum to rear 

A noble Trunk, and be a Peach. 

Even Daphnes coyness he does mock, 

And weds the Cherry to her stock. 

Though she refus'd Apolloes suit; 

Even she, that chast and Virgin Tree, 

Now wonders at her self, to see 
That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. 



Methinks I see great DiocUstan walk 
In the Salonlan Gardens noble shade, 
Which by his own Imperial hands was made: 
I see him smile (methinks) as he does talk 
With the Ambassadors, who come in vain, 

T' entice him to a throne again. 
If I, my Friends (said he) should to vou show 
All the delights, which in these Gardens grow; 
'Tis likelier much, that you should with me stay, 
Than 'tis that you should carry me away: 
And trust me not, my Friends, if every day, 

I walk not here with more delight. 
Then ever after the most happy fight. 
In Triumph, to the Capitol, I rod. 
To thank the gods, & to be thought, my self almost a god. 

6. Of Greatness. 

Since we cannot attain to Greatness, (saies the Sieur dt 
Montagn) let's have our revenge by railing at it: this 
he spoke but in Jest. I believe he desired it no more then 
I do, and had less reason, for he enjoyed so plentiful and 
honourable a fortune in a most excellent Country, as allowed 
him all the real conveniences of it, seperated and purged from 
the Incommodities. If I were but in his condition, I should 
think it hard measure, without being convinced of any crime, 
to be sequestred from it and made one of the Principal OflScers 
of State. But the Reader may think that what I now say, is of 
small authority, because I never was, nor ever shall be put to 
the tryal : I can therefore only make my Protestation, 

If ever I more Riches did desire 
Then Cleanliness and Quiet do require. 
If e*re Ambition did my Fancy cheat^ 
With any wishy so mean as to he greaty 
Continue^ Heav'ny still from me to remove 
The Humble Biasings of that Life I love. 



I know very many men will despise, and some pity me, for 
this humour, as a poor spirited fellow ; but I'me content, and 
like Horace thank God for being so. DH bene fecerunt inopis 
me juodque pusilli Finxerunt animi. I confess, I love Littleness 
almost in all things. A little convenient Estate, a little chearful 
House, a little Company, and a very little Feast, and if I were 
ever to fall in love again (which is a great Passion, and therefore, 
I hope, I have done with it) it would be, I think, with Pretti- 
ness, rather than with Majestical Beauty. I would neither 
wish that my Mistress, nor my Fortune, should be a Bona Roba^ 
nor as Homer uses to describe his Beauties, like a Daughter of 
great ^Juptter for the stateliness and largeness of her person, but 
as Lucretius saies, 

Parvuloy pumi/ioy yiapirtov fiCa^ tota merum sal. 

Where there is one man of this, I believe there are a 
thousand of Senecto^s mind, whose ridiculous afiedtation of 
Grandeur, Seneca the Elder describes to this efieft. Senecio was 
a num of a turbid and confused wit, who could not endure to 
speak any but mighty words and sentences, till this humour 
grew at last into so notorious a Habit, or rather Disease, as 
became the sport of the whole Town: he would have no 
servants, but huge, massy fellows, no plate or houshold-stuff, 
but thrice as big as the fashion: you may believe me, for I 
speak it without Railery, his extravagancy came at last into 
such a madness, that he would not put on a pair of shooes, each 
of which was not big enough for both his feet : he would eat 
nothing but what was great, nor touch any Fruit but Horse- 
plums and Pound-pears: he kept a Concubine that was a very 
G)rantess, and made her walk too alwaies in ChiopinSy till at last, 
he got the Surname of Senecio Grandioy which, Messala said, was 
not his Cognomen^ but his Cognomentum : when he declamed for 
the three hundred LaceiLemonianSj who alone opposed Xerxes his 
Army of above three himdred thousand, he stretch'd out his 
armes, and stood on tiptoes, that he might appear the taller, and 
cryed out, in a very loud voice ; I rcjoyce, I rejoyce — We 
wondred, I remember, what new great fortune had befidn his 
Eminence. Xerxes (saies he) is All mine own. He who took 
away the sight of the Sea, with the Canvas Vailes of so many 
ships — and then he goes on so, as I know not what to make 



of the rest, whither it be the fault of the Edition, or the Orators 
own burly way of Non-scnce. 

This is the charadter that Seneca gives of this Hyperbolical 
Fop, whom we stand amazed at, and yet there are very few 
men who are not in some things, and to some degrees Grandiis. 
Is any thing more common, then to see our Ladies of quality 
wear such high shooes as thev cannot walk in, without one to 
lead them ? and a Gown as long again as their Body, so that 
they cannot stir to the next room without a Page or two to 
hold it up ? I may safely say. That all the ostentation of our 
Grandees is just like a Train of no use in the world, but 
horribly cumbersome and incommodious. What is all this, 
but a spice of Grandio? how taedious would this be, if we were 
always bound to it ? I do believe there is no King, who would 
not rather be deposed, than endure every day of his Reign all 
the Ceremonies of his Coronation. The mightiest Princes are 
glad to fly often from these Majestique pleasures (which is, me- 
thinks, no small disparagement to them) as it were for refuge, 
to the most contemptible divertisements, and meanest recreations 
of the vulgar, nay, even of Children. One of the most power- 
ful and fortunate Princes of the world, of late, could finde out 
no delight so satisfadlory, as the keeping of little singing Birds, 
and hearing of them, and whistling to them. What did the 
Emperours of the whole world ? If ever any men had the free 
and full enjoyment of all humane Greatness (nay that would 
not suffice, for they would be gods too) they certainly possest it : 
and yet, one of them who stiled himself Lord and God of the 
Earth, could not tell how to pass his whole day pleasantly, 
without spending constant two or three hours in catching of 
Flies, and killing them with a bodkin, as if his Godship had 
been Beelzebub. One of his Predecessors, Nero (who never put 
any bounds, nor met with any stop to his Appetite) could divert 
himself with no pastime more agreeable, than to run about the 
streets all night in a disguise, and abuse the women, and affiront 
the men whom he met, and sometimes to beat them, and some- 
times to be beaten by them : This was one of his Imperial 
nocturnal pleasures. His chiefest in the day, was to sing and 
play upon a Fiddle, in the habit of a Minstril, upon the publick 
stage : he was prouder of the Garlands that were given to his 
Divine voice (as they called it then) in those kinde of Prizes, 



than all his Fore&thers were, of their Triumphs over nations: 
He did not at his death complain, that so mighty an Emperour 
and the last of all the desarian race of Deities, should be 
brought to so shameful and miserable an end, but only cryed out, 
Alas, what pity 'tis that so excellent a Musician should perish in 
this manner ! His Uncle Claudius spent half his time at playing 
at Dice, that was the main fruit of his Soveraignty. I omit the 
madnesses of Caligula*s delights, and the execrable sordidness of 
those of Tiberius. Would one think that Augustus himself, the 
highest and most fortunate of mankind, a person endowed too 
with many excellent parts of Nature, should be so hard put to 
it sometimes for want of recreations, as to be found playing at 
Nuts and bounding stones, with little Syrian and Moorish Boyes, 
whose company he took delight in, for their prating and their 
wantonness ? 

Was it for this, that Romes best blood he spilt. 
With so much Falshood, so much guilt ? 

Was it for this that his Ambition strove. 

To aequal Casar first, and after Jove? 

Greatness is barren sure of solid joyes; 

Her Merchandize (I fear) is all in toyes, 

She could not else sure so uncivil be. 

To treat his universal Majesty, 
His new-created Deity, 
With Nuts and Bounding-stones and Boys. 

But we must excuse her for this meager entertainment, she 
has not really wherewithall to make such Feasts as we imagine, 
her Guests must be contented sometimes with but slender 
Gates, and with the same cold meats served over and over 
again, even till they become Nauseous. When you have pared 
away all the Vanity what solid and natural contentment does 
there remain which may not be had with five himdred poimds a 
year ? not so many servants or horses ; but a few good ones, 
which will do all the business as well: not so many choice 
dishes at every meal, but at several meals, all of them, which 
makes them both the more healthy, and the more pleasant: not 
so rich garments, nor so frequent changes, but as warm and as 
comelv, and so frequent change too, as is every jot as good for 
the Master, though not for the Tailor, or l^alet de chamber : not 



such a stately Palace, nor guilt rooms, or the costliest sorts of 
Tapestry ; but a convenient brick house, with decent Wainscot, 
and pretty Forest-work hangings. Lastly, (for I omit all other 
particulars, and will end with that whicn I love most in both 
conditions) not whole Woods cut in walks, nor vast Parks, nor 
Fountain, or Cascade-Gardens ; but herb, and flower, and fruit- 
Gardens which are more useful, and the water every whit as 
clear and wholesome, as if it darted from the breasts of a marble 
Nymph, or the Urn of a River-God. If for all this, you like 
better the substance of that former estate of Life, do but con- 
sider the inseparable accidents of both: Servitude, Disquiet, 
Danger, and most commonly Guilt, Inherent in the one; in the 
other Liberty, Tranquility, Security and Innocence, and when 
you have thought upon this, you will confess that to be a truth 
which appeared to you before, but a ridiculous Paradox^ that a 
low Fortune is better guarded and attended than an high one, If 
indeed we look only upon the flourishing Head of the Tree, it 
appears a most beautiful objedl, 

Sed quantum vertice ad aur\a']s 

Mther\ias\ tantum radice ad Tartara Undit. 

As far as up to'wards He'ven the Branches grow. 
So far the Root sinks down to Hell below. 

Another horrible disgrace to greatness is, that it is for the 
most part in pitiful want and distress : what a wonderful thing 
is this ? unless it degenerate into Avarice, and so cease to be 
Greatness : It falls perpetually into such Necessities, as drive it 
into all the meanest and most sordid ways of Borrowing, 
Cousinage, and Robbery, Manc'tpiii locupUs eget arts Cappadocum 
Rex^ This is the case of almost all Great men, as well as of the 
poor King of Cappadocia. They abound with slaves, but arc 
indigent of Money. The ancient Roman Emperours, who had 
the Riches of the whole world for their Revenue, had where- 
withal to live (one would have thought) pretty well at ease, and 
to have been exempt from the pressures of extream Poverty. 
But yet with most of them, it was much otherwise, and they 
fell perpetually into such miserable penury, that they were forced 
to devour or squeeze most of their friends and servants, to cheat 
with in&mous projects, to ransack and pillage all their Pro- 


vinces. This fashion of Imperial Grandeur, is imitated by all 
inferiour and subordinate sorts of it, as if it were a point of 
Honour. They must be cheated of a third part of their 
Estates, two other thirds they must expend in Vanity, so that 
they remain Debtors for all the Necessary Provisions of life, and 
have no way to satisiie those debts, but out of the succours and 
supplies of Rapine, as Riches encreases (says Solomon) so do the 
Moaths that devour it. The Master Moath has no more than 
before. The Owner, methinks, is like Ocnus in the [F]able, who 
is perpetually winding a Rope of Hay and an Ass at the end 
perpetually eating it. Out of these inconveniences arises natur- 
ally one more, which is, that no Greatness can be satisfied or 
contented with it self: still if it could mount up a little higher, 
it would be Happy, if it could gain but that point, it would ob- 
tain all it*s desires; but yet at last, when it is got up to the very 
top of the Pic of Tenarif, it is in very great danger of breaking 
its neck downwards, but in no possibility of ascending upwards 
into the scat of Tranquility above the Moon. The first am- 
bitious men in the world, the old Gyants are said to have made 
an Heroical attempt of scaling Heaven in despight of the gods, 
and they cast Ossa upon Olympus and Pelion upon Ossa : two or 
three mountains more they thought would have done their 
Business, but the Thunder spoild sul the work, when they were 
come up to the third story. 

And what a noble plot was crosty 
And what a brave design was lost. 

A famous person of their OflF-spring, the late Gyant of oui* 
Nation, when from the condition of a very inconsiderable Cap- 
tain, he had made himself Lieutenant General of an Army of 
little Titans^ which was his first Mountain, and afterwards 
General, which was his second, and after that, absolute Tyrant 
of three Kingdoms, which was the third, and almost touchM 
the Heaven which he afFeded, is believed to have dyed with 
grief and discontent, because he could not attain to the honest 
name of a King, and the old formality of a Crown, though he 
had before exceeded the power by a wicked Usurpation. If he 
could have compast that, he would perhaps have wanted some- 
thing else that is necessary to felicity, and pined away for want 
of the Title of an Emperour or a God, The reason of this is, 

c II. EE 433 


that Greatness has no reallity in Nature, but a Creature of the 
Fancy, a Notion that consists onely in Relation and Comparison : 
It is indeed an Idol ; but St. Paul teaches us, Thai an Id$l 
is nothing in the IVorld. There is in truth no Rising or 
Meridian of the Sun, but onely in respedt to several places: 
there is no Right or Left, no Upper-Hand in Nature; every 
thing is Little, and every thing is Great, according as it is 
diversly compared. There may be perhaps some Village in 
Scotland or Ireland where I might be a Great Man ; and in that 
case I should be like Casar. (you would wonder how Cmar 
and I, should be like one another in any thing) and choose 
rather to be the First man of the Village, then Second at Rome. 
Our Country is called Great Britany^ in regard onely of a LesKr 
of the same Name ; it would be but a ridiculous Epithete for it, 
when we consider it together with the Kingdom of China. That 
too, is but a pitifull Rood of ground in comparison of the whole 
Earth besides : and this whole Globe of Earth, which we account 
so immense a Body, is but one Point or Atomc in relation to 
those numberless Worlds that are scattered up and down in the 
Infinite Space of the Skie which we behold. The other many 
Inconveniences of grandeur I have spoken of disperstly in 
several Chapters, and shall end this with an Ode of Horace^ 
not exadtly copyed, but rudely imitated. 


Horace. L. 3. Ode i 
Odi profanum vulgus^ &c. 

Ence, ye Profane; I hate ye all; 
Both the Great, Vulgar, and the small. 

To Virgin Minds, which yet their Native whiteness hold. 
Not yet Discolour'd with the Love of Gold, 

(That Jaundice of the Soul, 
Which makes it look so Guilded and so Foul) 
To you, ye very Few, these truths I tell; 
The Muse inspires my Song, Heark, and observe it well. 




We look on Men, and wonder at such odds 

TTwixt things that were the same by Birth ; 
We look on Kings as Giants of the Earth, 
These Giants are but Pigmeys to the Gods. 

The humblest Bush and proudest Oak, 
Are but of equal proof against the Thunder-stroke, 
Beauty, and Strength, and Wit, and Wealth, and Power 

Have their short flourishing hour; 

And love to see themselves, and smile, 
And joy in their Preeminence a while; 

Even so in the same Land, 
Poor Weeds, rich Corn, gay Flowers together stand; 
Alas, Death Mowes down all with an impartial Hand. 

And all you Men, whom Greatness does so please. 
Ye feast (I fear) like Damocles: 
If you your eyes could upwards move, 

(But you (I fear) think nothing is above) 

You would perceive by what a little thread 
The Sword still hangs over your head. 

No Title of Wine would drown your cares; 

No Mirth or Musick over-noise your feares. 

The fear of Death would you so watchfiiU keep. 

As not t* admit the Image of it, sleep. 

Sleep is a God too proud to wait in Palaces 
And yet so humble too as not to scorn 

The meanest Coimtry Cottages; 

His Poppey grows among the Corn. 
The Halcyon sleep will never build his nest 

In any stormy breast. 

*Tis not enough that he does find 

Clouds and Darkness in their Mind; < 

Darkness but half his work will do. 
'Tis not enough; he must find Quiet too. 

EE 2 4,l<i 



The man, who in all wishes he does make, 

Does onely Natures Counsel take. 
That wise and happy man will never fear 

The evil Aspefts of the Year; 
Nor tremble, though two Comets should appear; 
He does not look in Almanacks to see. 

Whether he Fortunate shall be; 
Let Mars and Saturn in th* Heavens conjoyn, 
And what they please against the World design, 

So Jupiter within him shine. 


If of your pleasures and desires no end be found, 
God to your Cares and Fears will set no bound. 

What would content you ? Who can tell ? 
Ye fear so much to lose what you have got, 

As if vou lik'd it well. 
Ye strive for more, as if ye lik'd it not. 

Go, level Hills, and nil up Seas, 
Spare nought that may your wanton Fancy please 

But trust Me, when you 'have done all this. 
Much will be Missing still, and much will be Amiss. 

7. Of Avarice. 

THere are two sorts of Avartcey the one is but of a Bastard 
kind, and that is, the rapacious Appetite of Gain; not for 
its own sake, but for the pleasure of refunding it immediately 
through all the Channels of Pride and Luxury. The other is 
the true kind, and properly so called ; which is a restless and 
unsatiable desire of Riches, not for any farther end or use, but 
onely to hoard, and preserve, and perpetually encrease them. 
The Covetous Man, of the first kind, is like a greedy Ostrich^ 
which devours any Metall, but 'tis with an intent to feed upon 
It, and in efFeft it makes a shift to digest and excern it. The 
second is like the foolish Chough, which loves to steal Money 
onely to hide it. The first does much harm to Mankind, and 


a little good too to some few: The second does good to 
none; no, not to himself. The first can make no excuse to 
God, or Angels, or Rational Men for his aflions : The second 
can give no Reason or colour, not to the Devil himself for 
what he does; He is a slave to Mammon without wages. 
The first makes a shift to be beloved; I, and envyed too by 
some People: The second is the universal Objeft of Hatred 
and Contempt. There is no Vice has been so pelted with 
good Sentences, and especially by the Poets, who have pursued 
it with Stories and Fables, and Allegories, and Allusions ; and 
moved, as we say, every Stone to fling at it: Among all 
which, I do not remember a more fine and Gentleman-like 
Corredion, then that which was given it by one Line of 

Disunt Luxuria multaj Avaritia Omnia. 

Much is wanting to Luxury, All to Avarice. 

To which saying, I have a mind to add one Member, and 
render it thus. 

Poverty wants some. Luxury Many, Avarice 
All Things. 

Some body sayes of a virtuous and wise Man, That having 
nothing, he has all: This is just his Antipode, Who, having 
All things, yet has Nothing. He's a Guardian Eunuch to his 
beloved Gold ; Andivi eos Amatores esse maximos sed nil potesse, 
TheyV the fondest Lovers, but impotent to Enjoy. 

And, oh. What Mans condition can be worse 
Then his, whom Plenty starves, and Blessings curse ; 
The Beggars but a common Fate deplore. 
The Rich poor Man's Emphatically Poor. 

I wonder how it comes to pass, that there has never been 
any Law made against him : Against him, do I say ? I mean. 
For him; as there are publick Provisions made for all other 
Madmen : It is very reasonable that the King should appoint 
some persons (and I think the Courtiers would not be against 
this proposition) to manage his Estate during his Life (for his 
Heires commonly need not that care) and out of it to make 
it their business to see, that he should not want Alimony 


befitting his condition, which he could never get out of his 
own cruel fingers. We relieve idle Vagrants, and counterfeit 
Beggars, but have no care at all of these really Poor men, who 
are (methinks) to be respedfliUy treated in regard of their 
quality. I might be endless against them, but I am almost 
choakt with the super-abundance of the Matter; Too much 
Plenty impoverishes me as it does Them. I will conclude this 
odious Subject with part of Horace^ s first Satyre^ which take in 
his own familiar stile. 

I *dmire, Mecanasj how it comes to pass. 

That no man ever yet contented was. 

Nor is, nor perhaps will be with that state 

In which his own choice plants him or his Fate 

Happy their Merchant, the old Soldier cries; 

The Merchant beaten with tempestuous skies, 

Happy the Soldier one half hour to thee 

Gives speedy Death or Glorious viftory. 

The Lawyer, knockt up early from his rest 

By restless Clyents, calls the Peasant blest. 

The Peasant when his Labours ill succeed, 

Envys the Mouth which only Talk does feed, 

*Tis not (I think you'l say) that I want store 

Of Instances, if here I add no more, 

They are enough to reach at least a mile 

Beyond long Orator Fabias his Stile, 

But, hold, you whom no Fortune e're endears 

Gentlemen, Malecontents, and Mutineers, 

Who bounteous Jove so often cruel call. 

Behold, "Jovei now resolv'd to please you all. 

Thou Souldier be a Merchant, Merchant, Thou 

A Souldier be; and. Lawyer, to the Plow. 

Change all their stations strait, why do they stay ? 

The Devil a man will change, now when he may, 

Were I in General Jove^s abused case. 

By Jove Tde cudgel this rebellious race: 

But he's too good; Be all then as you were, 

However make the best of what you are. 

And in that state be chearful and rejoycc. 

Which either was your Fate, or was your Choice. 



No, they must labour yet, and sweat and toil, 

And very miserable be a while. 

But 'tis with a Design only to gain 

What may their Age with plenteous ease maintain. 

The prudent Pismire does this Lesson teach 

And industry to Lazy Mankind preach. 

The little Drudge does trot about and sweat, 

Nor does he strait devour all he can get. 

But in his temperate Mouth carries it home 

A stock for Winter which he knows must come. 

And when the rowling World to Creatures here 

Turns up the deform'd wrong side of the Year, 

And shuts him in, with storms, and cold, and wet, 

He chearfully does his past labours eat: 

O, docs he so ? your wise example, th' Ant, 

Does not at all times Rest, and Plenty want. 

But weighing justly 'a mortal Ants condition 

Divides his Life 'twixt Labour and Fruition. 

Thee neither heat, nor storms, nor wet, nor cold 

From thy unnatural diligence can withhold. 

To th' Indies thou wouldst run rather then see 

Another, though a Friend, Richer then Thee. 

Fond man ! what Good or Beauty can be found 

In heaps of Treasure buried under ground ? 

Which rather then diminisht e're to see 

Thou wouldst thy self too buried with them be: 

And what's the difference, is't not quite as bad 

Never to Use, as never to have Had ? 

In thy vast Barns millions of Quarters store. 

Thy Belly for all that will hold no more 

Then Mine does; every Baker makes much Bread, 

What then? He's with no more then others fed. 

Do you within the bounds of Nature Live, 

And to augment your own you need not strive. 

One hundred Acres will no less for you 

Your Life's whole business then ten thousand do. 

But pleasant 'tis to take from a great store; 

What, Man? though you'r resolv'd to take no more 

Then I do from a small one ? if your Will 

Be but a Pitcher or a Pot to fill. 



To some great River for it miut you eo. 

When a clear ^ring just at your feet does flow ? 

Give me the Spring which docs to humane use 

Safe, easie, and untroubled stores produce. 

He who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nik 

Must run the danger of the Crocodile, 

And of the rapid stream it self which may 

At unawares bear him perhaps away. 

In a full Flood Tantalus Stands, his skin 

Washt o'rc in vain, for ever, dry within ; 

He catches at the Stream with greedy lips. 

From his toucht Mouth the wanton Torment slips: 

You laugh now, and expand your careful brow; 

Tis finely said, but what's all this to you? 

Change but the Name, this Fable is thy Story, 

Thou in a Flood of useless Wealth dost Glory, 

Which thou canst only touch but never taste; 

Th' abundance still, and still the want does last. 

The Treasures of the Gods thou wouldst not spare, 

But when thcy'r made thine own, they Sacred are. 

And must be kept with reverence, as if thou 

No other use of precious Gold didst know. 

But that of curious Piiftures to delight 

With the fair stamp thy f^irtueio sight. 

The only true, and genuine use is this, 

To buy the tbings which Nature cannot miss 

Without discomfort, Oy!, and vital Bread, 

And Wine by which the Life of Life is fed. 

And all those few things else by which wc live; 

All that remains is Giv'n for thee to Give; 

If Cares and Troubles, Envy, Grief and Fear, 

The bitter Fruits be, which fair Riches bear. 

If a new Poverty grow out of store; 

The old plain way, ye Gods, let me be Poor. 


A Paraphrase on an Ode in Horace's third Book^ 
beginning thus^ Inclusam Danaen turns ahenea. 

A Tower of Brass, one would have said, 
And Locks, and Bolts, and Iron bars. 
And Guards, as strict as in the heat of wars, 
Might have preserved one Innocent Maiden-head. 
The jealous Father thought he well might spare. 

All further jealous Care, 
And as he walkt, t' himself alone he smil'd. 

To think how Fenus Arts he had beguil'd; 

And when he slept, his rest was deep. 
But yenus laugh'd to see and hear him sleep. 

She taught the Amorous Jove 

A Magical receit in Love, 
Which arm'd him stronger, and which help*d him more. 
Than all his Thunder did, and his Almighty-ship before. 


She taught him Loves Elixar, by which Art, 
His Godhead into Gold he did convert. 

No Guards did then his passage stay. 

He pass'd with ease; Gold was the Word; 
Subtle as Lightning, bright and quick and fierce. 

Gold through Doors and Walls did pierce; 
And as that works sometimes upon the sword. 

Melted the Maiden-head away. 
Even in the secret scabbard where it lay. 

The prudent Macedonian King, 
To blow up Towns, a Golden Mine did spring. 

He broke through Gates with this PetaVj 
*Tis the great Art of Peace, the Engine 'tis of War ; 

And Fleets and Armies follow it a&r. 
The Ensign 'tis at Land, and 'tis the Seamans Star. 




Let all the World, slave to this Tyrant be, 
Creature to this Disguised Deitie, 

Yet it shall never conquer me. 
A Guard of Virtues will not let it pass, 
And wisdom is a Tower of stronger brass. 
The Muses Lawrel round my Temples spread, 
'T does from this Lightnings force secure my head. 

Nor will I lift it up so high. 
As in the violent Meteors way to lye. 
Wealth for its power do we honour and adore i 
The things we hate, ill Fate, and Death, have more. 

From Towns and Courts, Camps of the Rich and Great, 
The vast Xerxean Army I retreat. 
And to the small Laconick forces fly. 

Which hold the straights of roverty. 
Sellars and Granaries in vain we fill. 

With all the bounteous Summers store. 
If the Mind thirst and hunger still. 

The poor rich Man's emphatically poor. 

Slaves to the things we too much prize. 
We Masters grow of all that we despise. 


A Field of Corn, a Fountain and a Wood, 

Is all the Wealth by Nature understood. 
The Monarch on whom fertile Nile bestows 

All which that grateful Earth can bear, 

Deceives himse[l]f, if he suppose 
That more than this falls to his share. 
Whatever an Estate does beyond this afford, 

Is not a rent paid to the Lord; 
But is a Tax illegal and unjust. 
Exacted from it by the Tyrant Lust. 

Much will always wanting be. 

To him who much desires. Thrice happy He 
To whom the wise indulgency of Heaven, 

With sparing hand, but just enough has given. 



[8.] The dangers of an Honest man in much Company. 

IF twenty thousand naked Americans were not able to resist 
the assaults of but twenty well-armed Spaniards^ I see little 
possibility for one Honest man to defend himself against twenty 
thousand Knaves, who are all fiirnisht Cap ape^vfith the defensive 
arms of worldly prudence, and the offensive too of craft and 
malice. He will find no less odds than this against him, if he 
have much to do in humane affairs. The only advice therefore 
which I can give him, is, to be sure not to venture his person 
any longer in the open Campagn, to retreat and entrench 
himself, to stop up all Avenues, and draw up all bridges against 
so numerous an Enemy. The truth of it is, that a man in 
much business must either make himself a Knave, or else the 
world will make him a Fool : and if the injury went no farther 
then the being laught at, a wise man would content himself 
with the revenge of retaliation ; but the case is much worse, for 
these civil Cannibals too, as well as the wild ones, not only 
dance about such a taken stranger, but at last devour him. 
A sober man cannot get too soon out of drunken company, 
though they be never so kind and merry among themselves, 'tis 
not impleasant only, but dangerous to him. Do ye wonder 
that a vertuous man should love to be alone ? It is hard for him 
to be otherwise; he is so, when he is among ten thousand: 
neither is the Solitude so uncomfortable to be alone without 
any other creature, as it is to be alone, in the midst of wild 
Beasts. Man is to man all kinde of Beasts, a fauning Dog, 
a roaring Lion, a theiving Fox, a robbing Wolf, a dissembling 
Crocodile, a treacherous Decoy, and a rapacious Vulture. The 
civilest, methinks, of all Nations, are those whom we account 
the most barbarous, there is some moderation and good Nature 
in the Toupinambaltians who eat no men but their Enemies, 
whilst we learned and polite and Christian Europeansy like so 
many Pikes and Sharks prey upon every thing that we can 
swallow. It is the great boast of Eloquence and Philosophy, 
that they first congregated men disperst, united them into 
Societies, and built up the Houses and the walls of Cities. 



I wish they could unravel all they had wooven; that we 
might have our Woods and our Innocence again instead of 
our Castles and our Policies. They have assembled many 
thousands of scattered people into one body: 'tis true, they 
have done so, they have brought them together into Cities, to 
cozen, and into Armies to murder one another : They found 
them Hunters and Fishers of wild creatures, they have made 
them Hunters and Fishers of their Brethren, they boast to have 
reduced them to a State of Peace, when the truth is, they have 
only taught them an Art of War; they have framed, I must 
confess, wholesome laws for the restraint of Vice, but they 
rais'd first that Devil which now they Conjure and cannot Bind; 
though there were before no punishments for wickednes, yet 
there was less committed because there were no Rewards for it. 
But the men who praise Philosophy from this Topick are 
much deceived; let Oratory answer for it self, the tinckling 

ferhaps of that may unite a Swarm : it never was the work of 
'hilosophy to assemble multitudes, but to regulate onely, and 
govern them when they were assembled, to make the best of 
an evil, and bring them, as much as is possible, to Unity again. 
Avarice and Ambition only were the first Builders of Towns, 
G4M, XI. 4. and Founders of Empire ; They said. Go tOy let us build us a 
City and a Tower whose top may reach unto heaven^ and Ut us 
make us a name^ least we be scattered abroad upon the face of the 
Earth, What was the beginning of Romey the Metropolis of 
all the World ? what was it, but a concourse of Theives, and 
a Sandtuary of Criminals ? it was justly named by the Augury 
of no less then twelve Vultures, and the Founder cimented 
his walls with the blood of his Brother ; not unlike to this was 
the beginning even of the first Town too in the world, and 
such is the Original sin of most Cities : their Adtual encrease 
daily with their Age and growth ; the more people, the more 
wicked all of them ; every one brings in his part to enflame the 
contagion, which becomes at last so universal and so strong 
that no Precepts can be sufficient Preservatives, nor any thing 
secure our safety, but flight from among the Infedlecf. Wc 
ought in the choice of a Scituation to regard above all things 
the Healthfiilness of the place, and the healthfiilness of it for 
the Mind rather than for the Body. But suppose (which is 
hardly to be supposed) we had Antidote enough against this 



Poison j nay, suppose farther, we were alwaies and at all pieces 
armed and provided both against the Assaults of Hostility, 
and the Mines of Treachery, 'twill yet be but an uncomfortable 
life to be ever in Alarms, though we were compast round with 
Fire, to defend ourselves from wild Beasts, the Lodging would 
be unpleasant, because we must always be obliged to watch that 
fire, and to fear no less the defefls of our Guard, then the 
diligences of our Enemy. The summe of this is, that a 
virtuous man is in danger to be trod upon and destroyed in 
the crowd of his Contraries, nay, which is worse, to be changed 
and corrupted by them, and that 'tis impossible to escape both 
these inconveniences without so much caution, as will take 
away the whole Quiet, that is, the Happiness of his Life. Ye 
see then, what he may lose, but, I pray. What can he get 
there ? Quid Ram^ faciam ? Mrniiri nndo. What should a ?"=■ -» 
man of truth and honesty do at Rome ? he can neither under- 
stand, nor speak the Language of the place; a naked man may 
swim in the Sea, but 'tis not the way to catch Fish there; they 
are likcHer to devour him, then he them, if he bring no Nets, 
and use no Deceits. I think therefore it was wise and friendly 
advice which Marliai to Fabian^ when he met him newiy 
arrived at Remi. 

Honest and Poor, faithful in word and thought; 

What has thee, Fabian, to the City brought ? 

Thou neither the B[u]fFoon, nor Bawd canst play. 

Nor with false whispers ih' Innocent betray: 

Nor corrupt Wives, nor from rich Beldams get 

A living by thy industry and sweat; 

Nor with vain promises and projefts cheat, 

Nor Bribe or Flatter any of the Great. 

But you'r a Man of Learning, prudent, just; 

A Man of Courage, firm, and fit for trust. 

Why you may stay, and live uncnvyed here; 

But (faith) go back, and keep you where you were. 

Nay, if nothing of all this were in the case, yet the verj 
sight of Uncleanness is loathsome to the Cleanly; the sight of 
Foliy and Impiety vexatious to the Wise and Pious. 

Lutretius, by his favour, though a good Poet; was but an t-ua 
ill-natur'd Man, when he said, It was delightful to sec other 


Men in a great storm : And no less ill-naturM should I think 
Dimocritusy who laught at all the World, but that he retired 
himself so much out of it, that we may perceive he took no 
great pleasure in that kind of Mirth. I have been drawn twice 
or thrice by company to go to Bedlam^ and have seen others 
very much delighted with the fantastical extravagancie of so 
many various madnesses, which upon me wrought so contrary 
an eiFedl, that I alwayes returned, not onely melancholy, but 
ev'n sick with the sight. My compassion there was perhaps 
too tender, for I meet a thousand Madmen abroad, without 
any perturbation ; though, to weigh the matter justly, the total 
loss of Reason is less deplorable then the total depravation of it. 
An exad Judge of human blessings, of Riches, Honours, Beauty, 
even of Wit it self, should pity the abuse of them more then the 

Briefly, though a wise man could pass never so securely 
through the great Roads of human Life, yet he will meet 
perpetually with so many objects and occasions of compassion, 
grief, shame, anger, hatred, indignation, and all passions but 
envy (for he will find nothing to deserve that) that he had 
better strike into some private path ; nay, go so far, if he could, 
out of the common way, Vt nee faSla audiat Pelopidarum ; that 
he might not so much as hear of the aftions of the Sons of 
Adam. But, Whither shall we flye then? into the Deserts, 
Hke the antient Hermites ? 

Metani. i. Q^^^ ^^''f^ P^}^^ fi^^ regnat Erynnisj 

In facinus jurasse putes. 

One would think that all Mankind had bound themselves 
by an Oath to do all the wickedness they can ; that they had all 
(as the Scripture speaks) sold themselves to Sin : the difference 
onely is, that some are a little more crafty (and but a little God 
knows) in making of the bargain. I thought when I went 
first to dwell in the Country, that without doubt I should have 
met there with the simplicity of the old Poetical Golden Age: 
I thought to have found no Inhabitants there, but such as the 
Shepherds of Sir Phil, Sydney in Arcadioy or of Monsieur d^Urfe 
upon the Banks of Lignon ; and began to consider with my self, 
which way I might recommend no less to Posterity the Happi- 
ness and Innocence of the Men of Chertsea : but to confess the 



truth, I perceived quickly, by infallible demonstrations, that 
I was still in Old England^ and not in Arcadia^ or La Forrest ; 
that if I could not content my self with any thing less then 
exa£t Fidelity in human conversation, I had almost as good go 
back and seek for it in the Court, or the Exchange, or West- 
minster-Hall. I ask again then Whither shall we fly, or what 
shall we do ? The World may so come in a Mans way, 
that he cannot choose but Salute it, he must take heed though 
not to go a whoring after it. If by any lawful Vocation, or 
just necessity men happen to be Married to it, I can onely give 
them St. Pauls advice. Brethreriy the time is shorty it remaines i Cor. 7. 25 
that they that have IVives be as though they had none. But I would Vene 7. 
that all Men were even as I my self. 

In all cases they must be sure that they do Mundum ducere^ 
and not Mundo nubere. They must retain the Superiority and 
Headship over it : Happy are they who can get out of the sight 
of this Deceitful Beauty, that they may not be led so much as 
into Temptation ; who have not onely quitted the Metropolis, 
but can abstain from ever seeing the next Market Town of their 

C/audian's Old Man of Verona. 

HAppy the Man, who his whole time doth bound 
Within th' enclosure of his little ground. 
Happy the Man, whom the same humble place, 
(Th* hereditary Cottle of his Race) 
From his first rising infancy has known. 
And by degrees sees gently bending down. 
With natural propension to that Earth 
Which both preserv'd his Life, and gave him birth. 
Him no false distant lights by fortune set. 
Could ever into foolish wandrings get. 
He never dangers either saw, or fear'd: 
The dreadful stormes at Sea he never heard. 
He never heard the shrill allarms of War, 
Or the worse noises of the Lawyers Bar. 



No chanee of Consuls marks to him the year. 

The change of season, i. his Calendar. 

The Cold and Heat, Winter and Summer shows, 

Autumn by Fruits, and Spring by Flow'rs he knows. 

He measures Time by Land-marks, and has found 

For the whole day the Dial of his ground. 

A neighbouring Wood born with himself he sees, 

And loves his old contemporary Trees. 

H'as only heard of near yerona^s Name, 

And knows it like the Indies^ but by Fame. 

Does with a like concernment notice take 

Of the Red-Sea, and of Benacus Lake. 

Thus Health and Strength he to* a third age enjoyes, 

And sees a long Posterity of Boys. 

About the spacious World let others roam, 

The Voyage Life is longest made at home. 

9. I'he shortness of Life and uncertainty of Riches. 

IF you should sec a man who were to cross from Dover to 
Calaisj run about very busie and soUicitous, and trouble 
himselfe many weeks before in making provisions for his voyage, 
would you commend him for a cautious and discreet person, or 
laugh at him for a timerous and impertinent Coxcomb ? A man 
who is excessive in his pains and diligence, and who consumes 
the greatest part of his time in furnishing the remainder with 
all conveniencies and even superfluities, is to Angels and wise 
men no less ridiculous ; he does as little consider the shortness of 
his passage that he might proportion his cares accordingly. It 
is, alas, so narrow a streight betwixt the Womb and the Grave, 
that it might be called the Pas de Vie^ as well as that the Pas 
de Calais. We are all ^E<f>ijfjL€pot (as Pindar calls us) Creatines 
of a day, and therefore our Saviour bounds our desires to that 
little space ; as if it were very probable that every day should 
be our last, we are taught to demand even Bread tor no longer 
a time. The Sun ought not to set upon our Covetousness no 
more then upon our Anger, but as to God Almighty a thousand 
years are as one day, so in direA opposition, one day to the 



covetous man is as a thousand years ; Tarn brevifortis jaculatur 
4evo multay so far he shoots beyond his Butt : One would think 
he were of the opinion of the Millenaries^ and hoped for so 
long a Reign upon Earth. The Patriarchs before the Flood, 
who enjoy'd almost such a Life, made, we are sure, less stores 
for the maintaining of it ; they who lived Nine hundred years 
scarcely provided for a few davs ; we who live but a few days, 
provide at least for Nine hundred years ; what a strange altera- 
tion is this of Humane Life and Manners ? and yet we see an 
imitation of it in every mans particular experience, for we begin 
not the cares of Life till it be half spent, and still encrease them 
as that decreases. What is there among the adions of Beasts 
so illogical and repugnant to Reason ? when they do any thing 
which seems to proceed from that which we call Reason, we 
disdain to allow them that perfection, and attribute it only to a 
Natural Instin£t ; and are not we Fools too by the same kind of 
Instin£t ? If we could but learn to number our days (as we are 
taught to pray that we might) we should adjust much better our 
other accounts, but whilst we never consider an end of them, 
it is no wonder if our cares for them be without end too. 
Horace advises very wisely, and in excellent good words, spado 
brevi spent longam resecesj From a short Life cut off all Hopes 
that grow too long. They must be primed away like suckers 
that choak the Mother-Plant, and hinder it from bearing fruit. 
And in another place to the same sence, f^it[it] summa brevis 
spem nos vetat inc[h]oare longam^ which Seneca does not mend when 
he says, Ob quanta dementia est spes longas inchoantium I but he 
gives an example there of an acquaintance of his named Semcioy 
who from a very mean beginning by great industry in turning 
about of Money through all ways of gain, had attained to extra- 
ordinary Riches but died on a suddain after, having supped 
merrily. In ipso aSiu beni cedentium rerum^ in ipso procurrentis 
firtume impetUy In the fiill course of his good Fortune, when 
she had a high Tide and a stiff Gale and all her Sails on ; upon 
which occasion he cries, out of Firgil 

Insere nunc Melib[ce'\e PyroSy pone ordine vitesy 

Go Melih\ce]uSy now. 

Go graff thy Orchards and thy Vineyards plant; 

Behold the Fruit ! 

c. II. FF 449 


For this Sentcia I have no compasaon, because he was taken 
as wc say, in ipio faSa, still labouring in the work of Avarice, 
but the poor rich man in St. Luit (whose case was not like 
this) I could pity, methinks, if the Scripture would permit me, 
for he seems to have been satisfied at last, he confesses he had 
enough for many ycais, he bids his soul take its case, and yet for 
,. all that, God says to him : Tim Fool, this night thy tnil tball it 
rtquirtd of thee, and the things thou hast laid up, whom shall 
they belong to ? where shall we find the causes of this bitter 
Reproach and terrible Judgement ? we may find, I think, Two^ 
and God perhaps saw more. First, that he did not intend true 
Rest to his Soul, but only to change the employments of it 
from Avarice to Luxury, his design is to eat and to drink, aad 
to be merry. Secondly, that he went on too long before he 
thought of resting ; the fulness of his old Barns had not sufficed 
him, he would stay till he was forced to build new ones ; and 
God meted out to him in the same measure ; Since he would 
have more Riches then his Life could contain, God destroy'd 
his Life and gave the Fruits of it to another. 

Thus God takes away sometimes the Man from his Richer 
and no less frequently Riches from the Man ; what hope can 
there be of such a Marriage, where both parties are so fickle 
and uncertain i by what Bonds can such a couple be kept long 
together I 

Why dost thou heap up Wealth, which thou must quit, 

Or, what is worse, be left by it } 
Why dost thou load thy self, when thou'rt to flie, 
Oh Man ordain'd to die i 


Why dost thou build up sUlcly Rooms on higji, 
Thou who art under Ground to lie i 

Thou Sow'st and Plantcst, but no Fruit must see. 
For Death, alas ! is sowing Thee. 

Suppose, thou Fortune couldst to tameness bring. 

And clip or pinion her wing; 
Suppose thou couldst on Fate so fiir prevail 

As not to cut off thy Entail. 


Yet Death at all that subtiltv will laugh, 

Death will that foolish Gardner mock. 
Who does a slieht and annual Plant engraff, 

Upon a lasting stock. 

Thou dost thy self Wise and Industrious deem ; 

A mighty Husband thou wouldst seem ; 
Fond Man ! like a bought slave, thou all the while 

Dost but for others Sweat and Toil. 


OfScious Fool ! that needs must medling be 

In business that concerns not thee ! 
For when to Future years thou' extendst thy cares 

Thou deal'st in other mens afiairs. 

Even ag^ men, as if they truly were 

Children again, for Age prepare. 
Provisions for long travail they design. 

In the last point of their short Line. 


Wisely the Ant against poor Winter hoords 

The stock which Summers wealth aflR>rds, 

In Grashoppers that must at Autumn die. 
How vain were such an Industry? 

Of Power and Honour the deceitful Light 

Might halfe excuse our cheated sight. 
If it of Life the whole small time would stay, 

And be our Sim-shine all the day, 


Like Lightning that, begot but in a Cloud 

(Though shining bright, and speaking loud) 

Whilst it begins, concludes its violent Race, 

And where it Guilds, it wounds the place. 

FF 2 451 



Oh Scene of Fortune, which dost fiiir appear, 
Only to men that stand not near ! 

Proud Poverty, that Tinsel brav'ry wears ! 

And, like a Rainbow, Painted Tears ! 


Be prudent, and the shore in prosped keep, 
In a weak Boat trust not the deep. 

Plac'd beneath Envy, above envyinc; rise ; 

Pity Great Men, Great Things despise. 

The wise example of the Heavenly Lark, 
Thy Fellow-Poet, Cowley mark. 

Above the Clouds let thy proud Musique sound, 
Thy humble Nest build on the Ground. 

lo. The danger of Procrastination. 

A Letter to Mr, S. L. 

Am glad that you approve and applaud my design, of vnth- 
drawing my self from all tumult and business of the world ; 
and consecrating the little rest of my time to those studies, to 
which Nature had so Motherly inclined me, and from which 
Fortune, like a Step-mother has so long detained me. But never- 
Nprati theless (you say, which, Buty is Mrugo mera^ a rust which spoils 
the gooa Metjil it grows upon. But you say) you would advise 
me not to precipitate that resolution, but to stay a while longer 
with patience and complaisance, till I had gotten such an Estate 
as might afford me (according to the saving of that person whom 
you and I love very much, and would believe as soon as another 
man) Cum dignitate otium. This were excellent advice to 7tf«tf, 
who could bid the Sun stay too. But there's no fooling with Life 
when it is once turn'd beyond Forty. The seeking for a Fortune 
then, is but a desperate After-game, 'tis a hundred to one, if a 
man fling two Sixes and recover all ; especially, if his hand be no 
luckier than mine. There is some help for all the defe^ of 




Fortiine, for if a man cannot attain to the length of his wishes, 
he may have his Remedy by cutting of them shorter. Epicurus 
writes a Letter to Idomeneas (who was then a very powerful, 
wealthy, and (it seems) bountiful person) to recommend to 
Him who had made so many men Rich, one PythocleSy a fnend 
of his, whom he desired might be made a rich man too ; But I 
intreat you that you would not do it just the same way at 
you have done to many less deserving persons, but in the most 
Gentlemanly manner of obliging him, which is not to adde any 
thing to his Estate, but to take something from his desires. The 
summ of this is. That for the uncertain hopes of some Con- 
veniences we ought not to defer the execution of a work that is 
Necessary, especially, when the use of those things which we 
would stay for, may otherwise be supplyed, but the loss of time, 
never recovered : Nay, farther yet, though we were sure to obtain 
all that we had a mind to, though we were sure of getting never 
so much by continuing the Game, yet when the light of Life is 
so near gomg out, and ought to be so precious, Lejeu ne vaut pas 
la ChandeU^ The play is not worth the expence of the Candle : 
after having been long tost in a Tempest, if our Masts be standing, 
and we have still Sail and Tackling enough to carry us to our 
Port, it is no matter for the want of Streamers and Top-Gallants ; 
Utere velisy Totos pande sinus. A Gentleman in our late Civil 
Wars, when his Quarters were beaten up by the Enemy, was 
taken Prisoner, and lost his life afterwards, only by staying to 
put on a Band, and adjust his Periwig : He would escape like a 
person of quality, or not at all, and dyed the noble Martyr of 
Ceremony, and Grentility. I think your counsel of Festina lente 
is as ill to a man who is flying from the world, as it would have 
been to that unfortunate wel-bred Gentleman, who was so 
cautious as not to fly undecently from his Enemies, and there- 
fore I prefer Horace* s advice before yours. 

— Sapere Aude^ Incipe — 

Begin ; the Getting out of doors is the greatest part of the ^^J^** 
Journey. Farro teaches us that Latin Proverb, Portam itineri 
bngissimam esse : But to return to Horace^ 

— Sapere aude^ 

Incipe^ vivendi qui reSfe prorogat horam 
Rusticus expeSfat dum labitur Amnisj at ille 
Lahiturj (^ labetur in omne volubilis ovum. 


Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise; 

He who defers this work from day to day, 

Does on a Rivers Bank expelling stay, 

Till the whole stream, which stopt him, should be gon. 

That runs, and as it runs, forever will run on. 

Csesar (the man of Expedition above all others) was so far 
from this Folly, that whensoever, in a journey he was to cross 
any River, he never went one foot out of his way for a Bridge, 
or a Foord, or a Ferrv, but flung himself into it immediately, sund 
swam over ; and this is the course we ought to imitate, if we 
meet with any stops in our way to Happiness. Stay till the 
waters are low, stay till some Boats come bv to transport you, 
stay till a Bridge be built for you ; You had even as good stay 
till the River be quite past. Persius (who, you use to say, you 
do not know whether he be a good Poet or no, because you 
cannot understand him, and whom therefore (I say) I know to be 
not a good Poet) has an odd expression of these rrocrastinators, 
which, methinks, is full of Fancy. 

^*rt. yam Cras Histernum consumpsimus^ Ecce aliud Cras 

Satyr. 5. 1? % l 

hgertt DOS annos. 

Our Yesterdays To morrow now is gone. 
And still a new Tomorrow does come on, 
We by Tomorrows draw up all our store. 
Till the exhausted Well can yield no more. 

And now, I think, I am even with you, for your Otium cum 
dignitate^ and Festina Untey and three or four other more of your 
New Latinc Sentences : if I should draw upon you all my 
forces out of Seneca and Plutarch upon this subjedl, I should over- 
whelm you, but I leave those as Triary for your next charge. 
I shall only give you now a light skirmish out of an Epigram- 
matist, your special good Friend, and so, Vale. 

Mart. Lib. 5. Epigr. 59. 

To morrow you will Live, you always cry ; 
In what far Country does this morrow lye. 
That 'tis so mighty long 'ere it arrive ? 
Beyond xh^ Indies &o«^ t.\\\& M.Qrrow live ? 



'Tis so far fctcht this Morrow, that I fear 

'Twill be both very Old and very Dear. 

To morrow I will live, the Fool does say ; 

To Day it selPs too Late, the wise liv'd Yesterday. 

Mart. Lib, 2. Ep. 90. 

Wonder not. Sir (you who instru£t the Town 

In the true Wisdom of the Sacred Gown) 

Tliat I make haste to live, and cannot hold 

Patiently out, till I grow Rich and Old. 

Life for Delays and Doubts no time does give. 

None ever yet, made Haste enough to Live. 

Let him defer it, whose preposterous care 

Omits himself, and reaches to his Heir. 

Who does his Fathers boimded stores despise, 

And whom his own too never can suffice : 

My humble thoughts no glittering roofs require. 

Or Rooms that shine with ought but constant Fire. 

I well content the Avarice of my sight 

With the fair guildings of refle£led Light : 

Pleasures abroad, the sport of Nature yeilds 

Her living Fountains, and her smiling Fields : 

And then at home, wha[t] pleasure is't to see 

A little cleanly chearful Familie ? 

Which if a chast Wife crown, no less in Her 

Then Fortune, I the Golden Mean prefer. 

Too noble, nor too wise, she should not be. 

No, not too Rich, too Fair, too fond of me. 

Thus let my life slide silently away. 

With Sleep all Night, and Quiet all the Day. 

II. Of My self. 

IT is a hard and nice Subje£t for a man to write of himself, it 
grates his own heart to say any thing of disparagement, and 
the Readers Fares to hear any thing of praise from him. There 
is no danger from me of offending him in this kind ; neither my 



Mind, nor my Body, nor my Fortune, allow me any materials 
for that Vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that 
they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on 
the defective side. But besides that, I shall here speak of myself, 
only in relation to the subjedt of these precedent discourses, and 
shall be likelier thereby to fidl into the contempt, then rise up 
to the estimation of most people. As far as my Memory can 
return back into my past Life, before I knew, or was capable 
of guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, 
the natural afFedlions of my soul gave me a secret bent of 
aversion from them, as some Plants are said to turn away from 
others, by an Antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and in- 
scrutable to mans understanding. Even when I was a very 
youne Boy at School, instead or running about on Holy-daies 
and playing with my fellows ; I was wont to steal from them, 
and walk into the fields, either alone with a Book, or with some 
one Companion, if I could find anv of the same temper. I was 
then too, so much an Enemy to all constraint, that my Masters 
could never prevail on me, by any perswasions or encourage- 
ments, to learn without Book the common rules of Grammar, 
in which they dispensed with me alone, because they found I 
made a shift to do the usual exercise out of my own reading and 
observation. That I was then of the same mind as I am now 
(which I confess, I wonder at my self) may appear by the latter 
end of an Ode, which I made when I was but thirteen years 
old, and which was then printed with many other Verses. The 
Beginning of it is Boyish, but of this part which I here set down 
(if a very little were corredted) I should hardly now be much 

This only grant me, that my means may lye 
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high. 

Some Honor I would have 
Not from great deeds, but good alone. 
The unknown are better than ill known. 

Rumour can ope' the Grave, 
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends 
Not on the number, but the choice of Friends. 




Books should, not business entertain the Light, 
And sleep, as undisturb'd as Death, the Night. 

My House a Cottage, more 
Then Palace, and should fitting be 
For all my Use, no Luxury. 

My Garden painted o're 
With Natures hand, not Arts ; and pleasures yeild, 
Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 


Thus would I double my Lifes fading space. 
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. 

And in this true delight. 
These unbought sports, this happy State, 
I would not fear nor wish my fate. 

But boldly say each night. 
To morrow let my Sun his beams display. 
Or in clouds hide them ; I have liv'd to Day. 

You may see by it, I was even then acquainted with the Poets 
(for the Conclusion is taken out of Horace ;) and perhaps it was 
the immature and immoderate love of them which stampt first, 
or rather engraved these Characters in me : They were like 
Letters cut into the Bark of a young Tree, which with the 
Tree still grow proportionably. cut, how this love came to be 
produced in me so early, is a hard question : I believe I can tell 
the particular little chance that filled my head first with such 
Chimes of Verse, as have never since left ringing there : For I 
remember when I began to read, and to take some pleasure in 
it, there was wont to lie in my Mothers Parlour (I know not by 
what accident, for she her self never in her life read any Book 
but of Devotion) but there was wont to lie Spencers Works ; 
this I happened to fall upon, and was infinitely delighted with 
the Stories of the Knights, and Giants, and Monsters, and brave 
Houses, which I found every where there : (Though my under- 
standing had little to do with all this) and by degrees with the 
tinckling of the Rhyme and Dance of the Numbers, so that I 
think I had read him all over before I was twelve years old, and 



was thus made a Poet as immediately as a Child is made an 
Eunuch. With these afiedtions of mmd, and my heart wholly 
set upon Letters, I went to the University ; But was soon torn 
from thence by that violent Publick storm which would suiFer 
nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every Plant, even 
from the Princely Cedars to Me, the Hyssop. Vet I had as 
eood fortune as could have befallen me in such a Tempest ; for 
1 was cast by it into the Family of one of the best Persons, and 
into the Court of one of the best Princesses of the World. 
Now though I was here engaged in wayes most contrary to the 
Original design of my life, that is, into much company, and no 
small business, and into a daily sight of Greatness, both Militant 
and Triumphant (for that was the state then of the EngBsh and 
French Courts) yet all this was so far from altering my Opinion, 
that it onely added the confirmation of Reason to that which 
was before but Natural Inclination. I saw plainly all the Paint 
of that kind of Life, the nearer I came to it ; and that Beauty 
which I did not fall in Love with, when, for ought I knew, it 
was real!, was not like to bewitch, or intice me, when I saw 
that it was Adulterate. I met with several great Persons, whom 
I liked very well, but could not perceive that any part of their 
Greatness was to be liked or desired, no more then I would be 
glad, or content to be in a Storm, though I saw many Ships 
which rid safely and bravely in it : A storm would not agree 
with my stomach, if it did with my Courage. Though I was 
in a croud of as good company as could be found any where, 
though I was in business of great and honourable trust, though 
I cate at the best Table, and enjoyed the best conveniences tor 
present subsistance that ought to be desired by a man of my 
condition in banishment and publick distresses ; yet I could not 
abstain from renewing my old School-boys Wish in a Copy of 
Verses to the same efieft. 

Well then ; I now do plainly see 

This busie World and I shall ne're agree, ^c. 

And I never then proposed to my self any other advantage 
from His Majesties Happy Restoration, but the getting into 
some moderately convenient Retreat in the Country, which I 
thought in that case I might easily have compassed, as well as 
some others, with no greater probabilities or pretences have 



arrived to extraordinary fortunes : But I had before written a 
shrewd Prophesie against my self, and I think Apollo inspired 
me in the Truth, though not in the Elegance of it. 

TTiou, neither great at Court nor in the War, SS^'^' 

Nor at th* Exchange shal't be, nor at the wrangling Barr; 
Content thy self with the smsdl barren praise 
Which negledled Verse does raise, £fff. 

However by the failing of the Forces which I had expelled, I 
did not quit the Design which I had resolved on, I cast my self 
into it A Corps Perdue^ without making capitulations, or taking 
counsel of Fortune. But God laughs at a Man, who sayes to 
his Soul, Take thy ease : I met presently not onely with many 
little encumbrances and impediments, but with so much sick- 
ness (a new misfortune to me) as would have spoiled the 
happiness of an Emperour as well as Mine : Yet I do neither 
repent nor alter my course. Non ego perfidum Dixi Sacramentum; 
Nothing shall separate me from a Mistress, which I have loved 
so long, and have now at last married ; though she neither has 
brought me a rich Portion, nor lived yet so quietly with me as 
I hoped from Her. 

Nee vosy dulcissima mundi 

Nomina^ vos Mustty LibertaSj Otiaj Libriy 
Hortique Sylvaq; anima remanente relinquam. 

Nor by me ere shall you. 
You of all Names the sweetest, and the best. 
You Muses, Books, and Liberty and Rest ; 
You Gardens, Fields, and Woods forsaken be, 
As long as Life it self forsakes not Me. 

But this is a very petty Ejaculation ; because I have con- 
cluded all the other Chapters with a Copy of Verses, I will 
maintain the Humour to the last. 



Martial. L. lo. Ep. 47. 
f^tam qua faciunt heatto\r'\eMy &c. 

Since, dearest Friend, 'tis your desire to see 
A true Receipt of Happiness from Me ; 
These are the chief Ingredients, if not all ; 
Talce an Estate neither too great nor small, 
Which Quantum Suffidt the Doftors call. 
Let this Estate from Parents care descend ; 
The getting it too much of Life does spend. 
Take such a Ground, whose gratitude laxf be 
A fair Encouragement for Industry. 
Let constant Fires the Winters fury tame ; 
And let thy Kitchens be a Vestal Flame. 
Thee to the Town let never Suit at Law ; 
And rarely, very rarely Business draw. 
Thy aflive Mind in equal Temper keep, 
In undisturbed Peace, yet not in sleep. 
Let Exercise a vigorous Health maintain. 
Without which all the Composition's vain. 
In the same weight Prudence and Innocence talce, 
And of each does the just mixture make. 
But a few Friendships wear, and let them be 
By Nature and by Fortune fit for thee. 
In stead of Art and Luxury in food. 
Let Mirth and Freedome make thy Table good. 
If any cares into thy Day-time creep. 
At night, without Wines Opium, let them sleep. 
Let rest, which Nature does to Darkness wed, 
And not Lust, recommend to thee thy Bed, 
Be satisfi'd, and pleas'd with what thou art ; 
A£l chearfully and well th' alottcd part, 
Enjoy the present Hour, be thankful for the Past, 
And neither fear, nor wish th' a[^roachea of the last 



Martial Book lo. Epigram 96. 

ME who have liv'd so long among the great, 
You wonder to hear talk of a Retreat : 
And a retreat so distant, as may show 
No thoughts of a return when once I go. 
Give me a Country, how remote so e're. 
Where happiness a moderate rate does b&Eir, 
Where poverty it self in plenty (lowes, 
And all the solid use of Riches knowes. 
The ground about the house maintains it there. 
The House maintains the ground about it here. 
Here even Hunger's dear, and a full board. 
Devours the vital substance of the Lord. 
The Land it self does there the feast bestow. 
The Land it self must here to Market go. 
Three or four suits one Winter here does wast. 
One suit does there three or four winters last. 
Here every frugal Man must oft be cold. 
And little Luke-warm-fires are to you sold. 
There Fire's an Element as cheap and free. 
Almost as any of the other Three. 
Stay you then here, and live among the Great, 
Attend their sports, and at their tables eat. 
When all the bounties here of Men you score : 
The Places bounty there, shall give me more. 

Epitaphium Vivi Auftoris. 

H/f, O FiatoVy sub Lare parvulo 
Couleius Hie est CondituSy Hie Jaeet\ 
Defun£fus humani Laboris 

Sortfy supervacudqui vitd. 
Non Indecorft pauperie Nitens^ 
Et Non inerti mhi/is otio, 
f^anique diU^fis popello 

Divitiis animosus hostis. 



Possis ut ilium dicere mortuum ; 
En Terra jam nunc Quantula sufficit ? 
Exempta sit Curis^ viator, 

Terra sit ilia LeviSy precan. 
Hie sparge FloreS| sparge breves Rosas, 
Nam vita gaudet Mortua FlorihuSj 
Herbisque Odoratis Corona 

f^atis adhuc Cinerem Calentem. 

To the Duke of Buckingham, upon bis Marriage 
with the Lord Fairfax bis Daughter. 


BEauty and strength together came, 
Even from the Birth with Buckingham ; 
The little aftive Seeds which since are grown 

So fair, so large and high. 
With Life it self were in him sown; 
Honour and wealth stood like the Midwifes by, 

To take the Birth into their happy Hands, 
And wrapt him warme in their rich swaddling Bands 
To the great Stock the thriving Infant soon 

Made greater Acquisitions of his own; 
With Beauty generous Goodness he Combin'd, 
Courage to Strength, Judgment to Wit he joynM; 
He pair'd, and match'd his Native Virtues right. 
Both to improve their use, and their Delight. 


O blest Conjunftion of the fairest Stars, 
That Shine in Humane Natures Sphere ! 

But O ! what envious Cloud your Influence bars, 
111 fortune, what dost thou do there ? 
Hadst thou the least of Modesty, 

Thou'dst be ashamM that we should see 



Thy deform'd Looks, and Dress, in such a Company: 
Thou wert deceiv'd, rash Goddess, in thy hate, 

If thou dist foolishly believe 
That thou could'st him of ought deprive. 

But, what men hold of thee, a great Estate. 
And here indeed thou to the Aill did shew 

All that thy Tyrant Deity could do, 
His Virtues never did thy power obey, 
In dissipating Storms, and routed Battles they 
Did close and constant with their Captain stay; 

They with him into Exile went. 

And kept their Home in Banishment. 
The Noble Youth was often forc'd to flee 

From the insatiate Rage of thee. 

Disguised, and Unknown; 
In all His shap'es they always kept their own, 
Nay, with the Foil of darkness, brighter shone. 

And might Unwillingly have don, 
But, that just Heaven thy wicked Will abhor'd, 
What Virtues most detest, might have betrayd their Lord. 

Ah slothful Lovtj could'st thou with patience see 

Fortune usurp that flowry Spring from thee; 

And nip thy rosy Season with a Cold, 

That comes too soon, when Life's short year grows old. 

Love his gross Error saw at last. 
And promis'd large amends for what was past. 
He promis'd, and has don it, which is more 
Than I, who knew him long, e'er knew him do before. 
H' has done it Nobly, and we must confess 
Could do no more, though h' ought to do no less. 
What has he don? he has repair'd 
The Ruines which a luckless War did make. 

And added to it a Reward 
Greater than Conquest for its share could take. 
His whole Estate could not such gain produce. 
Had it layd out a hundred years at use. 



Now blessings to thy Noble choice betide, 

Happy, and Happy-making Bride. 
Though thou art born of a v iflorious Race, 
And all their rougher Viflorie dost grace 

With gentle Triumphs of thy Face> 
Permit us in this milder War to prize 
No less thy yeilding Heart, than thy Victorious Eyes. 

Nor doubt the honour of that field, 
Where thou didst first overcome, e'er thou didst yield. 

And tho' thy Father's Martial Name 

Has fill'd the Trumpets and the Drums of Fame, 
Thy Husband triumphs now no less than He, 

And it may justly qucstion'd be, 

Which was the Happiest Conqueror of the Three. 


There is in Fate (which none but Poets see) 

There is in Fate the noblest Poetry, 
And she has shown, Great Dulce, her utmost Art in Thee; 

For after all the troubles of thy Scene, 

Which so confus'd, and intricate have been. 
She has ended with this Match thy Tragicomedy; 
We all admire it, for the truth to tell, 
Our Poet Fate ends not all Plays so well ; 
But this she as her Master-piece does boast, 

And so indeed She may; 
For in the middle Afls, and turnings of the Play, 

Alas ! we gave our Hero up for Tost. 
All men, I sec, this with Applause receive. 

And now let me have leave, 
A Servant of the Person, and the Art, 
To Speak this Prologue to the second part. 





By Mr. Abraham Cowley. 


London., Printed 1679. 

The Publisher 



MEeting accidentally with this Poem in Manuscript^ and 
being informed that it was a Piece of the incomparable 
Mr, A C'i, / thought it unjust to hide such a Treasure from 
the World. I remember'^d that our Author in his Preface to 
his Works, makes mention of some Poems written by him on 
the late Civil War, of which the following Copy is questionably 
a part. In his most imperfe£f and unfinished Pieces, you will 
discover the Hand of so great a Master. And {whatever 
his own Modesty might have advised to the contrary) there is not 
one careless stroke of his but what should be kept sacred to 
Posterity. He could write nothing that was not vuorth the pre^ 
servingj being habitually a Poet and Always Inspired. In this 
Piece the Judicious Reader will find the Turn of the Verse to be 
his'y the same Copious and Lively Imagery of Fancy, the same 
Warmth of Passion and Delicacy of Wit that sparkles in all his 
Writings. And certainly no Labours of a Genius so Rich in its 
self and so Cultivated with Learning and Manners, can prove an 
unwelcome Present to the World. 




On the late 


WHat Rage docs England from it self divide. 
More than the Seas from all the World beside. 
From every part the roaring Cannons play, 
From evety part Blood roars as loud as they. 
What EHglith Ground but still some Moisture bears, 
Of Young Mens Blood, and more of Mothers Tears! 
What Airs unthiclcened with the Sighs of Wives, 
The' more of Maids for their dear Lovers Lives. 
Alas, what Triumphs can this Viflory shew, 
That dies us Red in Blood and Blushes coo ! 
How can we wish that Conquest, which bestows 
Cypress, not Bays, upon the Conquering Brows, 
It was not so when Henry's dreadful Name, 
Not Sword, nor Cause, whole Nations overcame. 
To farthest West did his swift Conquests run, 
Nor did his Glory set but with the Sun, 
In vain did Ri>deric to his Hold retreat, 
In vain had wretched Ireland call'd him Great. 
Ireland! which now most basely we begin 
To labour more to lose than he to win, 
It was not so when in the happy East, 
Richard our Atari, f^enui's Isle possest. 
'Gainst the proud Moon, he the Englhh Cross display'd, 
£cclips'd one Horn, and the other paler made. 
When our dear Lives we ventured bravely there, 
And digg'd our own to gain Christs Sepulchre. 
That sacred Tomb which should we now enjoy, 
We should with as much zeal fight to destroy. 

CG2 467 


The precious Signs of our dead Lord we scorn. 
And see his Cross worse than his Body torn. 
We hale it now both for the Grrei and Jtw, 
To ua 'tis Fo[o]lishness and Scandal to[o]. 
To what with Worship the fond Papist fiills, 
That the fond Zealot a cursed Idol calls. 
So, 'twixt their double Madness here's the odds, 
One makes false Devils, t'other tnalces false Gods. 

It was not so when Edward prov'd his Cause, 
By a Sword stronger than the Saliquc Laws. 
Tho fetched from Pharamond, when the French did Bght, 
With Womens Hearts against the Womens Right. 
The affliiSed Ocean his first Conquest bore, 
And drove Red Waves to the sad GalUgue Shore: 
As if he had Angry with that Element been, 
Which his wide hou! bound with an Island in. 
Where's now that spirit with which ac Cressey we. 
And Poi£iien forced from fate a Victory? 
Two Kings at once we brought sad Captives hotnc^ 
A Triumph scarcely known to ancient Remt; 
Two Foreign Kings, but now alas we strive, 
Our own, our own good Soveraign to Captive 1 

It was not so when Agincaurt was won, 
Under great Henry served the Rain and Sun, 
A Nobler Fight the Sun himself ne'r knew. 
Not when he stop'd his Course a Fight to view ! 
Then Death's old Archer did more skilful grow, 
And learned to shoot more sure from th* English bow ; 
Then France was her own story sadly taught. 
And felt how Casar and how Edward fought. 

It was not so when that vast Fleet of Spain, 
Lay torn and scatter'd on the English Main ; 
Through the proud World, a Virgin, terror struck. 
The Austrian Crowns and Rome's seven hills she shook ; 
To her great Neptune Homaged all his Streams 
And all the wide-stretched Ocean was her Thames. 
Thus our Fore-Fathers Fought, Thus bravely bled, 
Thus still they live, whit'st we alive are dead; 
Such Ai\s they did that Rome and Casar too, 
Might Envy those, whom once they did subdue. 


We're not their ofiUpring, sure our Heralds Lie, 
But Born we know not how, as now we Die; 
Their precious Blood we could not venture thus: 
Some Cadmus sure sowM Serpents teeth for us; 
We could not else by mutual Fury fall, 
Whilst Rhine and Sequan for our Armies call: 
Chuse War or Peace, you have a Prince you know. 
As fit for both, as both are fit for you. 
Furious as Lightning when Wars Tempest came, 
But Calm in Peace, Calm as a Lambent Flame. 

Have you forgot those happy years of late. 
That saw nought ill, but us that were Ingrate; 
Such years, as if Earths youth Returned had been. 
And that old Serpent Time had Cast his Skin : 
As Gloriously, and Gently did they move. 
As the bright Sun that Measures them above; 
Then onely in Books the Learn'd could misery see, 
And the Unlearned ne're heard of Misery. 
Then happy James with as deep Quiet Reigned, 
As in His heavenly Throne, by Death, he gained. 
And least this blessing with his Life should Cease, 
He left us Charles the Pledge of future Peace. 
Charles under whom, with much ado, no less 
Than sixteen years, we endur'd our happiness; 
Till in a Moment, in the North we find, 
A Tempest Conjured up without a Wind. 
As soon the North her Kindness did Repent, 
First the Peace-Maker, and next War she sent: 
Just Tweed that now had with long Peace forgot 
On which side dwelt the English^ which the Scot: 
Saw glittering Arms shine sadly on his face; 
WhiPst all the affrighted Fish sank down apace; 
No blood did then from this dark Quarrel grow. 
It gave blunt wounds, that bled not out till now! 
For yove^ who might have us'd his thundring power, 
Chose to fall calmly in a Golden showre! 
A way we found to Conquer, which by none 
Of all our thrifty Ancestors was known ; 
So strangly Prodigal of late we are. 
We there buy Peace, and here at home buy War. 



How could a war so sad and barbarous please, 
But first by slandring those blest days of Peace? 
Through all the Excrements of State they pry, 
Like Emp'ricks to find out a Malady; 
And then with Desperate boldness they endeavor, 
Th' Ague to cure by bringing in a Feavor: 
The way is sure to expel some ill no doubt, 
The Plague we know, drives all Diseases out. 
What strange wild fears did every Morning breed. 
Till a strange fancy made us sick indeed? 
And Cowardise did Valours place supply. 
Like those that kill themselves for fear to die ! 
What frantick Diligence in these Men appears. 
That fear all Ills, and aft o'r all their Fears? 
Thus into War we scared ourselves; and who 
But Aaran^% Sons, that the first Trumpet blew. 
Fond Men ! who knew not that they were to keep 
For God, and not for Sacrifice, their Sheep. 
The Churches first this Murderous Doftrine sow, 
And learn to Kill as well as Bury now. 
The Marble Tombs where our Fore-fathers lie, 
Sweated with dread of too much company; 
And all their sleeping Ashes shook for fear. 
Least thousand Ghosts should come and shroud them there. 

Petitions next from every Town they frame, 
To be restored to them from whom they came. 
The same stile all, and the same sense does pen, 
Alas, they allow set Forms of Prayer to Men. 
Oh happy we, if Men would neither hear 
Their studied Form, nor God their sudden Prayer. 
They will be heard, and in unjustest wise, 
The many-Headed Rout for Justice cries. 
They call for Blood, which now I fear does call 
For Blood again, much louder than they all. 
In sensless Clamours, aJid confused Noise, 
We lost that rare, and yet unconquer'd Voice: 
So when the sacred Thrncian Lyre was drown'd. 
In the Biitanlan Womens mixed sound. 
The wondriiig Stones, that came before to hear, 
Forgot themselves, and turn'd his Murderers there. 


The same loud Storm, blew the Grave Mitre down; 
It blew down that, and with it shook the Crown, 
Then first a State^ without a Church begun ; 
Comfort thy self dear Churchy for then 'twas done. 
The same great Storm, to Sea great Mary drove, 
The Sea could not such dangerous Tempests move. 
The same drove Charles into the North, and then 
Would Readilier hr have driven him back agen. 
To fly from noise of Tumults is no shame, 
Nc'r will their Armies force them to the same: 
They all his Castles, all his Towns invade. 
He's a large Prisoner in all England made ! 
He must not pass to Irelands weeping Shore, 
The Wounds these Surgeons make must yield them more: 
He must not conquer his lewd Rebels there, 
Least he should learn by that to do it here. 
The Sea they subjeft next to their command. 
The Sea that Crowns our Kings and all their Land. 
Thus poor they leave him, their base Pride and Scorn, 
As poor as these, now mighty Men, were born. 
When straight whole Armies meet in Charle[sy^ Right, 
How no Man knows, but here they are and Fight. 
A Man would swear that saw this altered State, 
Kings were called Gods, because they could Create 
Vain Men ; 'tis Heaven this first Assistance brings. 
The same is Lord of Hosts, that's King of Kings. 
Had Men forsook him. Angels from above, 
(The Assyrian did less their Justice move.) 
Would all have mustered in his Righteous Aid, 
And Thunder against your Cannon would have play'd. 
It needs not so, for Man desires to right 
Abused Mankind, and wretches you must fight. 
Worster first saw't, and trembled at the view, 
Too well the Ills of Civil War she knew. 
Twice did the Flames of old her Towers invade. 
Twice call'd she in vain for her own Sevenths Aid. 
Here first the Rebel Winds began to roar. 
Brake loose from the just Fetters which they bore. 
Here Mutinous Waves above their shore did swell, 
And the first Storm of that Dire Winter fell. 


But when the two great Brethren once appeared, 
And their bright Heads h'ke Leda\ oiF-spring rearM, 
When those Sea-calming Sons, from Jove were spied. 
The Winds all fled, the Waves all sunk and died ! 
How fought great Rupert^ with what Rage and Skill? 
Enough to have Conquered had his Cause been ill ! 
Comelv Young Man; and yet his dreadful sight, 
The Rebels Blood to their faint Hearts does fright. 
In vain alas it seeks so weak defence; 
For his keen Sword brings it again from thence: 
Yet grieves he at the Lawrels thence he bore; 
Alas poor Prince, they'll fight with him no more. 
His Vertue will be eclipsed with too much Fame, 
Henceforth he will not Conquer, but his Name: 

Here with tainted Blood the Field did stain. 

By his own Sacri ledge, and's Countrys Curses slain. 
The first Commander did Heavens Vengeance shew. 
And led the Rebels Van to shades below. 

On two fair Hills both Armies next are seen, 
The affrighted Valley sighs and sweats between; 
Here Angeh did, with fair Expedlance stay, 
And wish'd good things to a King as mild as they; 
There Fiends with hunger waiting did abide. 
And Cursed both, but spurr'd on the guilty side. 
Here stood Religion^ her looks gently sage, 
Aged, but much more comely for her Age ! 
There Schism Old Hagg, tho' seeming young appears. 
As Snakes by casting skins. Renew their years; 
Undecent Rags of several Dies she wore. 
And in her hand torn Liturgies she bore. 
Here Loyalty an humble Cross display'd. 
And still as Charles pass'd by, she bow'd and pray*d. 
Sedition there her Crimson Banner spreads. 
Shakes all her Hands, and roars with all her Heads. 
Her knotty Hairs were with dire Serpents twist. 
And every Serpent at each other hist. 
Here stood IVhite Truthy and her own Host does bless, 
Clad with those Armes of Proof lier Nakedness. 
There Perjuries like Cannons roar aloud. 
And Lies flew thick, like Cannons smoaky Cloud. 



Here Learning and th' Arts met, as much they fcar'd 
As when the Hunns of old and Goths appear'd. 
What should they do, unapt themselves to fight. 
They promised noble Pens the Afts to write. 
There Ignorance advanced, and joy'd to spy 
So many that durst fight they know not why. 
From those, who most the slow-soul'd Monks disdain, 
From those she hopes the Monks dull Age again. 
Here Mercy waits with sad but gentle look, 
Never alass had she her Charles forsook! 
For Mercy on her Friends, to Heaven she cries, 
Whilst Justice pulls down Vengeance from the Skies. 
Oppression there. Rapine and Murder stood 
Ready as was the Field to drink their Blood. 
A thousand wronged Spirits amongst them moan'd. 
And thrice the Ghost of mighty Strafford groan'd. 

Now flew their Cannon thick through wounded Air, 
Sent to defend, and kill their Soveraign there. 
More than he them, the Bullets feared his Head, 
And at his Feet lay innocently Dead. 
They knew not what those Men that sent them meant. 
And adled their pretence not their intent. 

This was the Day, this the first Day that shewM 
How much to Charles for our long Peace we ow'd: 
By his Skill here, and Spirit we understood, 
From War naught kept him but his Countries good. 
In his great Looks, what chearful Anger shone. 
Sad War^ and joyful Triumphs mixed in one. 
In the same Beams of his Majestick Eye, 
His own Men Life, his Foes did Death espy. 
Great Rupert this, that Wing great Willmott leads. 
White-feathered Conquest, flies o'r both their Heads. 
They charge, as if alone, they'd beat the Foe; 
Whether their Troops followed them up or no. 
They follow close and haste into the fight, 
As swift as strait the Rebels made their flight. 
So swift the Miscreants fly, as if each fear 
And jealousie they framed, had met them there. 
They heard Wars Musick, and away they flew. 
The Trumpets fright worse than the Organs do. 



Their Souls which still, new by-ways do invent, 
Out at their wounded Backs perversly went. 
Pursue no more, ye Noble f^i^fors stay. 
Least too much Conquest lose so brave a day: 
For still the Battail sounds behind, and Fate 
Will not give all; but sets us here a Rate: 
Too dear a rate she sets, and we must pay 
One honest Man, for ten such Knaves as they. 
Streams of Black tainted Blood the Field besmear, 
But pure well coloured drops shine here and there: 
They scorn to mix with flouds of baser veines. 
Just as the nobler moisture, Oyl disdains. 
Thus fearless Lindsey^ thus bold AubtgnVj 
Amid'st the Corps of slaughtered Rebels lie : 

More honourably than e'r was found. 

With troops of living Traytors circled round. 
Rest valiant Souls in peace, ye sacred pair, 
And all whose Deaths attenaed on you there: 
You'r kindly welcomed to Heavens peaceful coast. 
By all the reverend Martyrs Noble Host. 
Your soaring Souls they meet with triumph, all 
Led by great Stephen their old General. 

Go now prefer thy flourishing State, 

Above those murdered Heroes doleful fate. 

Enjoy that life which thou durst basely save, 

And thought'st a Saw-pit nobler than a Grave, 

Thus many saved themselves, and Night the rest. 

Night that agrees with their dark Anions best. 

A dismal shade did Heavens sad Face o'r flow. 

Dark as the night, slain Rebels found below. 

No gentle Stars their chearful Glories rear'd, 

Ashamed they were at what was done, and fear'd 

Least wicked Men their bold excuse should frame 

From some strange Influence, and so vail their shame. 

To Duty thus. Order and Law incline. 

They who ne'r Err from one eternal Line. 

As just the Ruin of these Men they thought. 

As Sisera\ was, 'gainst whom themselves had fought. 

Still they Rebellions ends remember well 

Since Lucifer the Great, their shining Captain fell. 



For this the Bells they ring, and not in vain, 

Well might they all ring out for thousands slain. 

For this the Bonefires, their glad Lightness spread, 

When Funeral Flames might more befit their dead. 

For this with solemn thanks they tire their God^ 

And whilst they feel it, mock th* Almighties Rod. 

They proudly now abuse his Justice more, 

Than his long Mercies they abu'sd before. 

Yet these the Men that true Religion boast, 

The Pure and Holy, Holy, Holy, Host! 

What great reward for so much Zeal is given? 

Why, Heaven has thankM them since as they thank'd Heaven. 

Witness thou Brainford^ say thou Ancient Town, 
How many in thy Streets fell grovelling down. 
Witness the Red Coats weltering in their Gore, 
And died anew into the Name they bore. 
Witness their Men blowed up into the Air, 
All Elements their Ruins joyed to share. 
In the wide Air quick Flames their Bodies tore. 
Then drown'd in Waves, thei'r tost by Waves to shore. 
Witness thou Thames^ thou wast amazed to see 
Men madly run to save themselves in thee. 
In vain, for Rebels Lives thou woul[d]st not save. 
And down they sunk beneath thy conquering Wave. 
Good reverend Thames^ the best beloved of all 
Those noble Blood, that meet at Neptune's Hall; 
Londonh proud Towers^ which do thy Head adorn, 
Arc not thy Glory now, but Grief and Scorn. 
Thou grievest to see the fVhite named Palace shine, 
Without the Beams of it's own Lord and thine: 
Thy Lord which is to all as good and free. 
As thou kind Flood to thine own Banks can be. 
How does thy peaceful Back disdain to bear 
The Rebels busie Pride at IVestminster, 
Thou who thy self doest without murmuring pay 
Eternal Tribute to thy Prince the Sea. 

To Oxford next Great Charles in Triumph came, 
Oxford the British Muses second Fame. 
Here Learning with some State and Reverence looks. 
And dwells in Buildings lasting as her Books; 



Both now Eternal, but they had Ashes been, 
Had these Religious f^andah once got in. 
Not Bodley*s Noble Work their Rage would spare, 
For Books they know the chief Malignants arc. 
In vain they silence every Age before, 
For Pens of Time to come will wound them more. 
The Temples decent Wealth, and modest State, 
Had suffered, this their Avarice, that their Hate. 
Beggary and Scorn into the Church they'd bring, 
And make God Glorious, as they made the King. 
O happy Town, that to Lov'd Charleses Sight, 
In those sad Times givest Safety and Delight. 
The Fate which Civil War it self doth bless. 
Scarce wouldst thou change; for Peace this happiness. 
Amidst all Joys which Heaven allows thee here, 
Think on thy Sister^ and then shed a tear. 

What Fights did this sad Winter see each day. 
Her Winds and Storms came not so thick as they ! 
Yet nought these far lost Rebels could recall. 
Not Marlborough^ nor Cirencester\ fall. 
Yet still for Peace the Gentle Conqueror sues. 
By his Wrath they Perish, yet his Love refuse. 
Nor yet is the plain Lesson understood. 

Writ by kind Heaven, in B and H *s Blood. 

Chad and his Church saw where their Enemy lay. 
And with just Red, new marked their Holy day. 
Fond Men, this Blow the injured Crosier strook. 
Naught was more fit to perish but thy Book. 
Such fatal Vengeance did wronged Charlegrove shew. 

Where both begun and ended to[o]. 

His cursed Rebellion, where his Soul's repaid 
With separation, great as that he made. 

Whose Spirit moved o'r this mighty Frame, 

O' th Brittish Isle, and out this Chaos came. 

The Man that taught Confusions Art, 

His Treasons restless and yet noisless Heart. 
His Adlive Brain, like Mtna^s Top appear'd. 
Where Treason's forged, yet no noise outward heard. 

'Twas he continued what e'r bold M said. 

And all the popular noise that P has made. 



*Twas he that taught the Zealous Rout to rise, 
And be his Slaves for some feigned Liberties. 
Him for this Black Design, Hell thought most fit, 
Ah ! wretched Man, cursed by too good a Wit. 
If not all this your stubborn Hearts can fright. 
Think on the frest^ think on the Cornish might: 
The Saxon Fury, to that for stretchM place. 
Drove the torn Reliques of great Brutus Race. 
Here they of old, did in long safety lie. 
Compassed with Seas, and a worse Enemy. 
Nc*r till this time, ne*r did they meet with Foes 
More Cruel and more Barbarous than those. 
Yc noble Britta'tnsy who so oft with Blood 
Of Pagan HostSy have died old Tamar^s Flood, 
If any drop of mighty Uther still. 
Or Uther*% mighty'r Son your Veins does fill. 
Shew then that Spirit, till all Men think by you 
The doubtful Tales of your great Arthur true. 
You have shewn it BritainSy and have often done 
Things that have cheared the weary setting Sun. 
Again did Tamar your dread Arms behold. 
As just and as successful as the Old: 
It kissed the Cornish Banks^ and vow'd to bring 
His richest Waves to feed the ensuing Spring; 
But murmur'd sadly, and almost deny'd 
All fruitful Moisture to the Devon side. 
Ye Sons of War, by whose bold Afts we see 
How great a thing exalted Man may be; 
The World remains your Debtor, that as yet 
Ye have not all gone forth and conquerd it. 
I knew that Fate some wonders for you meant, 
When matchless Hopton to your Coasts she sent. 
Hopton! so wise, he needs not Fortunes Aid, 
So fortunate his Wisdom's ^useless made. 
Should his so often tryed Companions foil. 
His Spirity alone, and Courage would prevail. 
Miraculous Man\ how would I sing thy praise. 
Had any Muse crowned me with half the Bays 
Conquest hath given to thee ; and next thy Name 
Should Berkfyy Stanningy Digby press to Fame. 



Gtdalpbin thee, thee GrttnvU I'd rehearse, 

But Tears broik off my Verse, 

How oft has vanquished Stamfird backward fled, 

Swift as the parted Souls of those he led 1 

How few did his huge Multitudes defeat, 

For most are Ciphers when the Number's great. 

Numbers alass of Men, that made no more. 

Than he himself Ten Thousand times told o'r. 

Who hears of Strattm Fight, but must confess 

All that he heard or read before was less. 

Sad Gtrmany can no such Trophjr boast, 

For all the Blood these twenty years sh' has lost. 

Vast was their Army, and their Arms were more 

Than th' Host of Hundred-handed Gyants bore. 

So strong their Arms, it did almost appear 

Secure, had neither Arms nor Men bwn there. 

In HoptQii breaks, in break the Cornish Powers, 

Few and scarce Arm'd, yet was the advantage ours. 

What doubts could be, their outward strength to win. 

When we bore Arms and Magazine within. 

The violent Swords out-did the Muskets ire, 

It strook the Bones, and there gave dreadful fire: 

We scorned their Thunder and the reaking Blade, 

A thicker Smoak than all their Cannon made. 

Death and loud Tumults fill'd the place around; 

With fruitless rage; fallen Rebels bite the Ground, 

The Arms we gain'd, were JVealth^ Bodies, of the Foe, 

All that a full fraught Viftory can bestow. 

Yet stays not Hopton thus, but still proceeds. 

Pursues himself through all his glorious deeds. 

With Hertford, and the Prince, he joyns his fete, 

The Belgian Trophies on their journey wait. 

The Prince who oft had check'd proud fV feme. 

And fool'd that flying Canquiraari empty name: 

Till by his loss that fertile Monster thriv'd. 

This Serpent cut in parts rejoyn'd and liv'd. 

It liv'd and would have stung us deeper yet, 

But that bold Greenvil its whole fury met. 

He sold like Decius his devoted Breath, 

And left the Common-Wealth Heir to his Death. 



Hail mighty Ghost \ look from on high and see 

How much our Hands and Swords remember thee. 

At Roundway Heathy our Rage at thy great foil, 

Whet all our Spirits, and made us Greenvils all. 

One thousand Horse beat all their numerous power; 

Bless me! and where was then their Conqueror \ 

Coward of Fame, he dies in haste away, 

Miny ArmSy and Name leaves us the f^iSfors Prey, 

What meant those Iron Regiments which he brought, 

That moving Statues seemd and so they fought. 

No way for Death but by Disease appear'd. 

Cannon and Mines a Siege they scarcely feared: 

Till 'gainst all hopes they prov d in this sad sight. 

Too weak to stand, and yet too slow for fight. 

The Furies houl'd aloud through trembling Air, 

Th' astonish'd Snakes fell sadly from their Hair, 

To Lud*s proud Town their hasty flight they took. 

The Towers and Temples at their entrance shook: 

In vain their Loss the' attempted to disguise. 

And mustred up new Troops of fruitless lies: 

God fought himself, nor could th' event be less, 

Bright Conquest walks the Fields in all her dress. 

Could this white day a Gift more grateful bring? 

Oh yes! it brought bless'd Mary to the King! 

In Keynton Field they met, at once they view 

Their former Viftory and enjoy a new. 

Keynton the Place that Fortune did approve, 

To be the noblest Scene of IVar and Love\ 

Through the Glad vail. Ten thousand Cupids fled 

And Chas'd the wandring spirits of Rebels dead. 

Still the lewd scent of Powder did they fear, 

And scatter'd Eastern smells through all the Air. 

Look happy Mount, look well, for this is she. 

That Toyl'd and Travel'd for thy Vidory, 

Thy flourishing Head to her with reverence bow. 

To her thou owest that Fame which Crowns thee now. 

From far stretcht Shores they felt her spirit, and might: 

Princes and God at any distance fight. 

At her return well might sh'a Conquest have, 

Whose very absence such a Conquest gave. 



This in the fVesty nor did the North bestow 

Less Cause their usual gratitude to show; 

With much of state brave Cavendish led them forth, 

As swift and fierce as tempest from the North. 

Cavendish whom every Grace and every Muse^ 

Kiss*d at his Birth; and for their own did chuse: 

So good a IVit they meant not should excel 

In ArmSy but now they see*t and like it well: 

So large is that rich Empire of his heart, 

Well may they rest contented with a Part; 

How soon he forc'd the Northern Clouds to flight, 

And struck Confusion into Form and Light! 

Scarce did the Power Divine in fewer days, 

A peaceful World out of a Chaos raise. 

Bradford and Leeds propt up their sinking fame. 

They bragg'd of Hosts, and Fairfax was a name. 

Leedsy Bradford^ Fairfax Powers are strait their own. 

As quickly as they vote Men overthrown. 

Bootes from his Wain look'd down below. 

And saw our Viftory move not half so slow. 

I see the Gallant Earl break through the Foes, 

In Dust and Sweat how gloriously he shows. 

I see him lead the Pikes; What will he do? 

Defend him Heaven^ Oh whither will he go? 

Up to the Cannons mouth he leads! in vain 

They speak loud Death and threaten till they'r ta'ne. 

So Capaneuh two Armies fill'd with Wonder, 

When he charged Jove and grappled with his Thunder. 

Both Hosts with silence, and with terror shook. 

As if not he, but they were thunder-strook : 

The Courage here, and Boldness was no less, 

Onely the Cause was better and Success. 

Heaven will let naught be by their Cannon done. 

Since at Edghil they sin'd and Burlington. 

Go now your silly Calumnies repeat. 

And make all Papists whom you cannot beat. 

Let the World know some way, with whom you arc vext. 

And vote 'em Turks when they overthrow you next. 

Why will you die fond Men, why will you buy. 

At this fond rate, your Coimtreys slavery? 



Is't liberty! what are those threats we hear. 

Why do you thus th' Old and New Prison fill? 

When that's the onely why; because you will? 

Fain would you make God too thus tyranous be, 

And damn poor Men by such a stiff Decree: 

Is*t property? why do such numbers then, 

From God beg vengeance and Relief from Men ? 

Why are the Estates and Good^s seiz'd on of all 

Whom Covetous or Malicious Men miscall? 

What's more our own than our own Lives? But oh 

Could Teoman^Sy or could Bourchler find it so? 

The Barbarous Coward alway's used to fly. 

Did know no other way to see men die. 

Or is't Religion} What then mean your Lies 

Your Sacriledges and Pulpit Blasphemies, 

Why are all Se£f^s let loose, that ere had Birth, 

Since Luther*s noise wak'd the Letharglck Earthy 

The Author went no further. 

C II. 




Coolyn vents uppan my Lady Elisabeth birlh 

an Cbristmasi rvtn 1635, 

'rum Harldan MSS. 6J83 : first priiilwl by Dr Grosart 

in his Edition of Cuwiey.) 

YOUR picture mighiy P. iograv'd in (joulil 
whichc [rom youc picture doth more luslte bciuld 
men to [heit frends for gialulaiion tend 
when Janus doth bcginn (he yiard and end: 
Nature weh muche from your Iaj^c hand receives 
for ncw-years-guilt to lliee Ihync image gives 
ot fair moie woilh ihen thy goulds lovely pnnl 
bolh for the graver mclUll and Ihe minti 

nay wc know yr spring lime ttirward creepi 
from th fertile roote a new frenche lilly peeps: 
go on wise nature, and willi equall care 
eache iwelvemonlh suche a new-years guift prepart. 
Thou, whom 4. kingdomei for their faliier know, 
art father only of 4. children now. 
Oh letl the number of thy of-ipring mount 
till we Iby children by thy ciiues count : 
leave thy self with us diversly, ot we 
at the fear'd day shall envy heav'n to thee, 
whiche mayst thou laic enjoy and Nestor be 
in years, as now thou art in prudency. 
And when ould age that over Princes laignei, 
bath scatterd could, and fayulne* through ihj vcyns, 
and made thee weake such travaile 10 sustayn, 
maysl thou be carried there in Lhine owne wayn. 

A. CO\VI,E\". 

Upeit the happie Birlh of ihe Duke. 
From Voces Votivae ab Academicis Caniabrigicnsibus etc MDCXL, 



7HILST the rude North Charles hU slow wratb doth call, 
Whilst warre is fear'd, and conquest hop'd by all, 
IDC several! shires their various forces lend. 
And some do men, some gallant horses send, 
Some sleet, and lome (the stronger weapon) gold. 
These warlike contributions ore bul old^ 

HH 2 483 


Tlut coantrcy Inni'd s new and better way, 
^Vluch did thii roy«ll Prince (or Tribute pay. 
Who shall henceforth be with inch rage po«M«, 
To roue our Eogliih Lion from hu reU ' 
When a new Sonne dolh bii bleat itoclc adorn. 
Then to great Charle* b a new Arcaie bora. 
In priTkle birthi Hopes challenge the Gnt place: 
There's Certaintie at first in the Kinsi race j 
And we majr Mjr, Such will hit glonei be, 
Snch his creat acts, and, yet not prophesie. 

i see him through an adverse battel U 

Bedeck'd with noble sweat and comeljr dnst. 

1 «ee the pieiie of the dav appeare, 

Jovn'd witk the heale and valoar or the jeare. 

Which happie Fate did to this birth allow : 

1 tee all thii ; for sure 't It present now. 

Leave off then, Ijondon, to accote the starret 

For adding a worse terrour to the warrei; 

Nor quarrel with the heavens, 'caute they b^nne 

To send the wural eflecl and scourge of sinne. 

That dreadful plague, which, wheresoe're'l abide, 

Devours both man and each disease beside. 

For every life which from great Charles does flow, 

And'i Female self, weigha down a crowd of low 

And vulgar souls : Fate rids of Ihem the earth. 

To make more room for a jrreat Princes birth. 

So when the sunnc, afler his watrie ml, 

Comes dancijig from his chamber of the East, 

A thoutand fKttie lamps s|>read ore the tkie. 

Shrink in their doubtfull beams ; then wink, and die : 

Yet nu man eiieve^ ; the very birds arise, 

And ring glad noteit in stead of Elects : 

The leaves and painted flowen:, which did erewhite 

Tremble with moumfull drops, beginne to tmile. 

The losse of many why should they bemone. 

Who (ot them more then many have in one ? 

How blesi must ihou Ihy self, bright Mary, be, 
Who by Ihy wombe canst blesse our miserie? 
May't still be fniitfuU. May your oiTipring too 
Spread largely, as yuur fame and virtues do. 
Fill every season thus : Time, wlilch devours 
Its own sonne«, will be glad and proud of yours. 
So will the Vear (though sure it weari'd be 
With olten revolutions) when'l shall liee 
The honour by such births il doth attain, 
Joy to return into il self again. 

A. Cowley, A.B.T.C. 



On thi Power of Love, 

N.B. This is delivered down by tradition as a production of Cowley ; 
and was spoken at the Westminster- School election, on the following 
subject : 

^^Nullis amor est medicabilis herbis,*^ — Ovid. 

SOL Daphne sees, and seeing her admires, 
Which adds new flames to his celestial fires: 
Had any remedy for Love been known, 
The god of Phjrsic, sure, had car*d his own. 

The second and the third of the above poems were included in Dr Johnson's 
editions of the works of the poets. The same collection includes two other 
poems attributed to Cowley, but I have not been able to bring myself to 
oelieve that the internal evidence justifies the inclusion of them and I have 
therefore not printed them here. They are entitled The Farce of Love^ 
Preserved from an old manuscript ('Throw an apple up a hill*) and The 
Character of an Holy Sister (* She that can sit three sermons in a day '). 



In the volume entitled Poems By the most deservedly Admired M^' KcUherine 
Philips (London, 1678), Cowley's commendatory verses * On the Death of 
Mrs. Katherine Philips ' (see the first volume of the present edition, p. 443) 
end with the following additional lines : 

To the elad world of Poetry and Love; 
There aU the bless'd do but one body grow, 
And are made one too with their glorious Head, 

Whom there triumphantly they wed, 
After the secret contract pass'd below ; 
Their Love into Identity does go, 
*Tis the first unity's Monarchic Throne, 
The Centre that knits all, where the great Three's but One. 

(Ed. Saintsbury, Caroline Poets ^ Vol. I. p. 503, 1905.) 

p. I. Poetical Blossoms was first published in 1633 : the title-page states 
that the book is * By A,C^ The imprint is * London, | Printed by d.A* and 
T^F, for Henry Seile, and are to | be sold at his shop at the Signe of the 
Tygers'head \ in St. Paules Church-yard. | 1633. 

A second edition was published when Sylim appeared in 1636. The third 
edition of 1637 has been followed in the present work. The following 
variations have been noted in a collation of the texts of 1633 (A) and 
1636 (B). 

In the folio edition of 1681, * Printed by Mary Clarke for Charles Harper^ 
at the Flower-de-luce in Fleet-strut^ and Jacob Tonson^ at the Judges Head in 
Chancery-lane^ near Fleet-street^^ a * Second Part* was added, ^ Being what 
was Written and Published by himself in his YOUNGER YEARS. And 
now Reprinted together.' The title-page describes the poems as in their 
* Fourth Ediiiony and they are prefieuxd by the following publishers' note : 

The Book-sellers to the Reader. 

THE following Poems of Mr. Cowley being much enquired after, and very 
scarce, (the Town hardly affording one Book, though it had been thrice 
Printed) we thought this Fourth Edition could not fail of being well received 
by the World. We presume one great reason why they were omitted in the 
last Collection, was, because the propriety of this Copy belonged not to the 
same person that Published those : but the reception they had found appears 
by the several Impressions through which they had pass'd. We dare not say 
they are equally perfect with those written by the Author in his Riper Years^ 
yet certainly they are such as deserve not to be buried in obscurity. We 
presume the Authors Judgment of them is most reasonable to appeal to ; and 
you will find him (allowing mins of modesty) give them no small Character. 
His words are in the 6th. Page of his Preface before his former Published 



You find our excellent Author likewise mentioning and reciting part of 
these Poems, ttt Ais stvtrai Disamrsu by way tf Essays m Vtrsi andAwe^ in 
the I Uk, Discourse treating of himself^ page 143. These we suppose a sufficient 
Authority for our reviving them ; and sure there is no ingenuous Reader to 
whom the smallest Remains of Mr. Cowi^ will be unwelcome. His Poems 
are every where the Copy of his mind, so that by this Supplement to his other 
Volume you have the Picture of that so deservealy Eminent Man from almost 
his Childhood to his Latest Years, The bud and bloom of his S^ng, The 
warmth of his Summer^ llie richness and perfection of his Atttumm, But for 
the Readers further curiosity, we refer him to the Authors following Pre£ue 
to them, Published by himself. And to contribute all we can to our Readers 
satisfaction, we have endeavoured to make these Poems something more 
acceptable, by prefixing the Sculpture of the Authors Monument. 

Your humble Servants, 

C. ff. 7, T. 
p. 3. Net in A. 

p. 9, 1. 9. A] Lover alwa3rs followes them. 

p. ID, 1. 13. A] who with. 

p. 11, 11. 14-17. A] 

Then from the Woods with sorrowful heart he goes, 
Prilling with flowing thoughts his grieved minde, 
He seeks to ease his soule oppressing woes, 
But no refreshing comfort can he find: 
1. 33. A] Which with. 1. 34. A] And Cupids. 

p. 12, 1. 3. A] By his. I. 11. A] But either. II. 16-19. A] 
Whilst wandnng thoughts thus guide her troubled Brain, 
Seeing a Lute (being farre from any cares) 
Shec tun'tl this song whose musicke did transcende 
The pleasant harmony of the fowling Spheres ; 

p. 13, 11. 19-11. A] 

Such lines as I desire, that they may keepe 
Mee from steme death, or when I leave my rime, 
They in my deaths revenge may conquer time. 
1. 34. A, possibly correctly] any sweat. 

p. 14, 1. 5. A] and the fondling love. 1. 10. A] As th* Soul of Pylades 
and Orestes was. 1. 11. A] may wee. 1. 14. A] his fate as too. 

I. 26. A] tcareth the. 

p. 15. 11- 5-7- A] 

As if she strove to shew her miseries 

Were greater farrc then his, and sweetly sings 

To out-reach his Sorrowes, by her sufferings. 

II. 9- 1 4 (i.e. Stanza 35). A] 

His sadcnesse cannot from Philocrates 
Be hid, who scckcs all nieancs his griefe to know, 
Seeing all mirth I'hilctus doth displease 
And T'assion still pursues his conquered Foe: 
Hee therefore of his griefe did oft enquire. 
But Love with covering wings had hid the fire. 
1. 17. A] to usurping. 

p. 20, 1. II. 1637 misprints] impeachmeut. 

p. 21, I. 7. 1637] power. 



p. aa, ]. 3& 1637 misfirititr] Uolesse. 

p. ag, I. 13. i6s7 rtfitalt ot itt^trrec/fy it/ire Oie. 

p. 33. I- 1 7- 1637] fight. 

p. 41, L 4. 1637 m/j/riWi) appproaching. 

p- 47i I' 5' jf irtukci hat been added after shoulders. 

p. 50, 1. 7. 1637] Romor. 
p. Si, 1. %%. 1637 emits number ef stataa, 
p. S3, 1. If. 1637 enais number a/ Jiansa. 
p. S^, 1. 30. 1637 misprints] you. 

p. 66. The thrM-voluTue edition of Cowley's works published in 1711 
ontains, at Ihe end of Sj/fva, the following verses : 

TV a Lady whe deiired a Sang ef Mr, Cowley, 
he prtsmttd thU fillavj'tng. 

(~^Omt, Poetry, and with you bring along 

V^ A rich and painted Throng 

Of noblest Words into my Song. 
Into my Numbers let Ihcm gently now. 
Soft and pure, and thick as Snow, 

And turn Ihy Numbers still to prove 

Smooth as the smoothest Sphere above, 
And like a Sphere, like a Sphere, haimoniously move. 
Little dost thou, vain Song, thy Fortune know. 
What thon art destin'd to. 

And what the Stars intend to do- 
Among a thousand Songs but few can be 
Botn to the Honour promls'd thee. 

£/iu's self shall thee receive. 

And a blest Being to thee give, 
Thou on ber sweet and tunefiU Voice shalt live. 
Her wsibling Tongue shall freely with [hee play. 
Thou on her Ijps shall stray, 

And dance upon the rosie Way. 
No Prince alive Inal would not envy thee, 
And count thee happier far than he. 

And how shall thou thy Author crown ! 

When bir Elisa shall be known 
To ung thy Praise, when she but speaks her own. 
p. 71, L 13. Some e^iesprini\ traversed, 
p. 73- I- 9- 1638] Shepheads. 
p. 7St '. ^3- ^ comma ias been ifhttilvled ftir a full slef at the end af this 

p. 78, 1, ij. .SiHn/ ce/wi /fin/ humour^/W honor, 
p. 79, 1. 'I. A braekel has btenaddedat the heprnmng of the &u. 
p. 80, I. 5. 163S misprints\ KA. I. 38. A fitU Hop has been added al 
HH5 489 


the end of the speech here and in Hmilar places elsewhere; also at the end of 
the contracted noma of the characters^ instead of the commas of the text. 

p. 8z, 1. 33. 1638] blossomes?. 1. 34. Sotne cofia read] two needs 
hftve. 1. 35. Some copies read] lose't. Some copia read] spcaJdng to? 
1*31- i638]houest. 

p. 8a, 1. 4. Some copies read] salute them. 1. 11. Some copies read] 
open*t hereatter. 

p. 88, 1. 39. Some copies read] He cry. 

p. 89, 1. 13. Some copies read] Recourse. 1. 37. Some copies read] A 

p. 98, 1. I. Some copies read] She wall. 1. 1 1. Some c^ies read] fitt*!. 
1.13. 1638 mfV^TMf/x] /^o//. Weither. 1. 31. 16 fi friftts li, iB-ty as one 
speech, dnt in the margin of two or three copies collatel Cal. is written where 
here inserted in square brackets, 

p. 96, 1. 31. A brcuket has been taken away before In. 

p. 97, 1. 8. Some copies read] now many. 

p. 99, 1. 18. Some copieSi and possibly correctly^ read] fait. 

p« X03, 1. 39. 1638 misprints] hithet. 

p. 106, 1. I. 1638 mispHtets] scaudall. 

p. 109, 1. 30. A superfluous bracket has been taken away from the end of 
the line, 

p. 1x4, 1. 39. 1638 repeats the ufordleU 

p. zao, 1. 18. 1638 misprints] thuse. 

p. z 25, 1. 13. 1638 misprints] Malemus. 

p. Z33, 1. 19. 1638 misprints] wonder. 

p. Z37, 1. 6. A full stop has been added after riddle. 

p. Z38, 1. 19. A full stop has been tcdten away after too. 

p. Z39, 1. 6. 1638 misprints] Shcpheatdes!>e. 

p. Z45, 11. 14, 15. The last two words are possibly a stage directiofi, 

p. Z46, 1. I. A mark of interrogation has been taketi away after sweetest. 

p. Z49. There is a copy of this poem, signed * Abr: Cowley,* among the 
Bum MSS. in the British Museum, from which the following variants nave 
l)een taken. I am indebted to Mr G. A. Brown for a transcript of the MS. 

p. Z50, L 6. MS. throughout to p. 157 except where otherwise stated] and 
so grow. 1. 8. Omits] the. 1. 9. U[oes. 1. 30. scarce. 1. 31. 

their neat... have. 1. 36. Ministers. L 28. knew not. 1. 31. Brain- 
ford. 1. 33. e*re long. 

p. Z51, 1. 3. Nor vast. 1. 4. In their own authors John Brown, Clever, 
Parr. 1. 5. what their. 1. 6. Stroud. 1. 8. maintain in liberty. 

11. 8, etc. The square brackets are those of the original text, 1. la greatest. 
1. II. rout the. 1. 13. Omits] gracious. 1. 16. ne*re. 1, 17. th' 
Estates of Subjects. 1. 10. Omitted in MS. 1. 33. of God. L 34. 
You've swore. I. 35. more. 1. 36. swearings. 1. 37. are so. 

1. 32. pravers do say. 1. 33. you doth ensue. 1. 39. Omits] enough. 
1. 40. in the. 

p. Z52, 1. I. ^ou would. 1. 3. ye have... of Religion. 1. 3. hope 
to. 1. 5. Omtts] too. 1. 9. Brainford. 1. 13. your souls. 1. 18. 



That maiiy. 

I. 2 1 . Omili] a ami sacred. 
J. 35. jou would. 1. 17. men. 
e'te long you'l grant. 
God himself you'l cant. Afttr 1. 

I. 7. doth. 


and ponisb. 

So ETcal* 1. 34- oas. 

Popuh Invocation. I. jj 
P- '53. '■ J- proud IjFs 

The; ^mple fomicalioiis count no Crime 
M — — .^ j,g]y pinee and holy '■ — 
- " ' '>ty Snncti' 
Zeal and [he Spirit, %a woik among yuu then 
At all Ihe meetings are h^ot netv-tnen. 
L 14. Synods. 1. 15. olh' euth you. I. 16. make. 
1. 17. meat. 1. 18. the Irish. I. 11. or Lent. 1. ij. you'l. 

I. 14. but your tongue*. 1. aj. Oirii/s] few ot. 1. 3]. will. 

1. 3f. backwards. 1. 39. on the. 

p. 154, I. I. 't' offend, 1. 3. If your mind be rightly understood. 

I. IS. tnl by Ihe. I. 11. have. I. 16. We hear of DiveU. 1. 10. 
You've given to that Idiolt 6. 1. il, ihere you begin. I. ij. have a. 
1. 16. Kingdom. I. ^7. Omitj} not. I. jj. Pany, L 34. He does. 
I, 35. Lawiy. I. 39. and men. 1. 40. Fiom Mr. Calumny. 

P- ■5S< '' *■ ^ >^^'l B^' '- •'^' ya'l do't. 1. 6. em to't. I. 7. 
now hcr's iwiit you the. I. 9. But what's. I. ro. or One Geneiall. 

1. [4. I've. 1. 10. Ih«m, I- 11. ExcuM, Loani, Contribution. 

1. 14. and youc Synod hath, I. 15. Whete's now the 10 part of all that 

hath been. 1. 17. Where all. 1. 30. touch. I, 36. ha's. 

1. 38. Would he be. jl/ffr I. 40 aJds folbnoing lints: 

One Groom for tlie cloie-stDol again wou'd be 
Rather then »iill Groom of the dose -Commit lee, 
Another for his Staff ai^n doth itch 
Faith let him have it for another switch- 
p. ijS. I. 1. They'd. 1. 4. By't molhcis. I. 10. Bishops not 

their copes or. 1. 11. Oh lei us not. I. 16. tricks. 1. 19. 1643 
miifiriHtii Tymots. I. 11. About these men. 1. 13. Iniquilys. 

1. 16. or why. I. 30- Unjuster. 1. 33. Gods. I. 33. Ye »y.., 
FreleRnent, I. 36. Omitj] ivill. 1. 40. With pike^ Clubi, halbeardi 

p- "57. '■ 
Omitf fata. 

O/hUi] that. 
13. their moneys. 
. 10. StsfTord's. 

p. lOo, 1. 3. i6jo mitfirtHts] O'A. 


tiifirinti] lis. 

p. 164. 1. I. iG5o]you. 
p. tSg, 1. I. 1650] three. 

p. 170, I. 31. Tit cmlra! A is miiting in Ihi tixf ef 16^0. 
p. 171. 1. IT. An txdamalien mark lakii Iki ftaii 
galieti htrt and in ant ar loo limilar te 
187, 1. 4. i6jo] you. 

u tisrwhrrt. 


p. 194, 1. to. 1650] Cinundnimt. 

p- igOi L 38. 1 650 mUfrintsi he he. 

p. 101, L ij. i6je] your. 

p. Ml, 1. 13. A full tlop kas bttH aiidtd afttr mw, L 30. A etmrna 
iai A«M adM afttr comen. \. 40. i Sjo] too. 

p. sol, 1. 6. i6jo] i'm aure Ihoa. 

p. aia, 1. yt. (Gjo iHisfritUs\ 'Slid. 

p. ai3, L 3. 1(50 miifriiitt\ ncv'r. 

p. 110,1. 39. i6jo)to. 

p. 931, 1. 1. i6;o miifriMts\ naUnchdy. 1. 14. i6jo] love, you 

p. aaO, [. 3. A full step has htm addtd afttr tnie. 

p. 130, L 14. i6;o miipnmti\ he. 

p. 333, 1. It. 1630 mitfrtH/j] Rftlp. 

p. 333, L 9. i6jo mitfrintii knowlede. 1. 39. 1650 wu/noUlf] vety. 

p. 33S, L 16. 1 650 /ni'j^'h/i] meelling. 

p. 143. Saau ccpUi af ikt saint dale nod] A Pmpoiilion Ibr the Advuice- 
ment of Learning. By A. Cowley. Wrg. O Fortunili quorum jun Mcenia 

p. 348, 1. 3. 1661] Lond6n. 

p.l5j, 1. 11. i66i]Schi>ol. 1.19. 1661 mispiiits] veil 

p. 156, 1. 8. 1661] Nenesiaiius. I. 16. i66[] Volumn. 

p. 167, 1. ;. 1663] Sovening. 

p. 371, I. 4. 1663 im'sfiriHis] Tabith Boucbotlle. 

p. ays, I. 7. i66j miiprinlil ye. 

p. 18a, 1. ij. 1663 mis/rinli'] Ntadenhead. 

p. a8g, 1. 3. 1663 BiitfirtHti} dearh. 

P- ifl', 1- 30. 1663] Their. 

p. a95. I. 19. 1663] Wor. 

p. 300, I. ji. 1 66 j] their. 

P- 3I7> !■ 39' 1^3] SiniiUu(le& 

p. 317. I- 9- '663 iiiisprinli] cast. 

p. 334, 1. I. The Itxt givts Ml spetih le Wor, / hmii vmiural li> tu6- 
slilule I'un. 

p. 33B, I< 1- 1663] him. 

p. 341, 1. 19. 1663 mirfirin/i] Eaiih. 

p. 343. Published in 1G61. I h&ve not been able to lee a copy of the 

edition of that year and I have theiefore accepted the text of the folio of 166S. 
The title-paee in the Harltion Misctllany, Vol. 3, reads : ' A Vision, con- 
cerning his late pretended Highness, Cromvitll the Wicked : Conuinii^ a 

DiscoDFSc in Vindication of him, by a pretended Angel, and the Confatation 
thereof, by the Author, Abraham CffwUy.—Stta rvique Dmsfil A'ra Liiid*. — 
Virgil. LtndeH, Printed for Htnry Hirringman, at the Anther in the 
Lmoer- IValh in the Nete-exchatigt, 1 66 1 .' Id the version of the tnct 



given in the HarUian Miscellany the following Advertisement prefaces the 

Tliis Discourse was written in the time of the late Protector^ Richard the 
Little y and was but the first Booh of three^ that were designed by the Author, 
The Second, was to be a Discourse with the Guardian-angel of England, 
concerning all the late Confusions and Misfortunes of it. The Th&d, to 
denounce heavy Jtidgments against the three Kingdoms, and several Places 
and Parties in them, unless they prevented them speedily by serious Repentance, 
and that greatest and hardest IVorh of it, Restitution. There was to be upon 
this Subject the Burden of England, the Burden of Scotland, the Burden of 
Ireland, the Burden of London, the Burden of the Army, the Burden of the 
Divines, the Burden of the Lawyers, and many others, after the Manner of 
Prophetical Threatenings in the Old Testament: But, by the extraordinary 
Mercy of Gody {for which we had no Pretence of Merits nor the lecut Glimpse of 
Hope) in the sudden Restoration of Reason, and Right, and Happiness to us, 
it became not only unnecessary, but unseasonable and impertinent to prosecute 
the Work. However, it seemed not so to the Author to publish this first Part, 
because, though no Man can justify or approve the Actions of Cromwell, 
without having cdl the Seeds and Principles of Wickedness in his Heart, yet 
many there are, even honest and well-meaning People, who, ivithout wading 
into any Depth of Coftsideration in the Matter, and purely deceived by sflendxd 
Words, and the outward Appearances of Vanity, are apt to admire him as a 
great and eminent Person; which is a FalUuy, that extraordinary, and, 
especially, successful Villames impose upon the World. It is the Corruption 
and Depravation of human Nature, that is the Root of this Opinion, though it 
lie sometimes so deep under Ground, that we ourselves are not die to perceive it; 
euid when we account any Man great, or brave, or wise, or of good Parts, who 
advances himself and his Family, by any other Ways but those of Virtue, we are 
certainly biassed to that Judgment by a secret Impulse, or, at least. Inclination 
of the Viciousness of our own Spirit. It is so necessary for the Good and Peace 
of Mankind^ that this Error (which grows almost every where, and is 
spontaneously generated by the Rankness of the Soil) should be weeded out, 
and for ever extirpated, that the Author was content not to suppress this 
Discourse, because it may contribute somewhcU to that End, though it be but 
a small Piece of that which was his original Design, 

p. 346, 1. 16. Folio] Men. 1. 2$. Folio] and and. 
P* 354i I* 33> Folio] again). 

p. 356, 1. 17. Folio] and, Murderers 1. 19. Folio] scource. I. 31* 
Foho misprints] refresh. 

p. 361, 1. 31. Folio misprints] hamless. 

p. 362, 1. 21. Folio] probably. 

p. 363, 1. 15. Folio] danger. 

P- 3641 1. .^6. Folio] tell. 

p. 378, 1. 6. Should be serviliuni. 1. 36. Folio] Cataline. 

P* 379t 1- 3- Folio] Cataline. 

p. 380, 1. 14. Folio] frindships. 

p. 38Z, 1. 6. Folio] Freind. 1. 19. Folio] Incoveniences. 1. 13. 

A bracket has been added after Atticus. 



p. 38a, 1. 8. Folio] Perithoam. 1. 34. Tht seccftd for should have been 

p. 383, 1. 18. Folio] miieros. Altered in errata, 

p> 384, 1. 3. Folio] Autority. 

p. 385, 1. 15. A comma has been substituted for a full stop after Man. 

p. 386, 1. 31. A semi-colon has been added after Friend. 1. 34. A full 
stop has been added after have. 

p. 387, L 15. The reference 1 is not in the Folio, 1. 94. Folio] I a. 

p. 389, 1. 13. Folio] steam. 

p. 390, 1. 34. Folio] unwildly. 

p. 39X, 1. 5. Folio] Morgage. 

p. 39a, 1. I. The number 1 is not in the folio, 

p. 393, 1. 16. Folio] to. 

P* 394* 1* ^9* A semi-colon has been added after Letters. 

p. 396, 1. 11. A comma has been added after pace. 

P* 397» 1* 3> Folio] the. 1. 9. Folio] 18. 1. 33. A comma has bun 
substituted for a full stop after well. 

p. 40Z, 1. I. A semi-colon hcu been supplied after City. 

p. 40a, 1. 18. Folio] Materials, 

p. 408, 1. 38. Folio] non plenius, 1. 30. Folio misprints'] Fpistles. 

pp. 409, 414, 416. Published earlier in the volume of 1663. See the first 
volume of the present edition, p. 463. 

p. 4x9, 1. 3. Folio] whom 'ere. 1. 13. For described read desir'd. 

1. 14. Folio] Yeomen. 

p. 430, 1. 7. Folio] men. 

p. 4ai, I. 33. For their recul your. 

p. 4a3, 1. 3. Folio] T'had. 

p. 434, 1. f. Folio] whisling. 

p. 43a, 1. 19. Folio] auros. I. 30. Folio] ^Ctheria. 

?• 433» !• 9' Folio] Table. Altered in errata. The list of errata also 
indicates thai for moaths, mouths should be read in 1. 8. 

p. 434, 1. 16. Folio] too, is, but. 

p. 435, 1. 33. For Title read Tide. 

p. 438, 1. 14. For their read the. 1. 33. For their read your. 

p. 44Z. Published earlier in the volume of 1663. 

p. 44a, 1. 39. Folio misprints] himsef. 

P* 443» !• '• Unnumbered in the Folio, 

p. 445, 1. 35. Folio] Baffoon. Altered in errata, 

p. 447. Published in 1663. 

p. 449, 1. 35. Folio] Vita. 1. 36. Folio] incoare. I. 36. Folio] 

Mcfilxec. 1. 37. Folio] Melibieus. 

p. 450, 1. 7. A full stop after him /;/ the Folio has been altered to a colon. 

P* 455» ^« 4* Folio] selfs. 1. 32. Folio misprints] wha. 



). 4S0, L 1. Folio] b«ationem. 
p. 4S1. Pubtisfaed in 166}. 1. 10. Folio] Tht fiill slap after free io/ 

beat allCTtd le a ci 

A lisle/ et 
tionj wtrt maJc in laltr editiims a 

I ethers not. In tht pramt tUSen tht 

- '- — hick Mat has tttit gi 

I pestlaimeujly futUi 

• incluiled in tit aievi netes, lavt a fete le which Mat has htttt givtn 
'" ' mtmberid that the Estaysioeri pestlaimeujly fubhshtd 
w thtm in print. 

in the Itxt. it 7fill be remembered that the Essays tn 
and that C<m>ley m 

p. 464, 1. J. A comma hai been adiUdafter betide. 

p. 4B8, I. 4. 1679] Folishness andXa. 

p. 470. 1, ji. 1679] mxB.j Hraded-Roul. 

1679] Charle's. I. 17. A ftdl step has been taken away 

P- 474. I- IS- 
Later tds.,\\ 

Essex vsas printed in the blank in later tditiens. I. 13. 

p. 47S. 1- ij- 1679] woulst. 

p. 476, 1. J4. Later tdt., B ksdu^H ni. II. 30, 33, 35. Later 

eds., H n. I. 30. 1679] to. 1. 31). Laitr tdt., MaitfO. L 40. 

Later eds., Pym. 

J. 477. 11' 14. 16' FuH stops have been altered te cemmai afttr Flood 


Agriculture, Of 400 Elisabeth birth, &c., Coolyes verses 

Avarice, Of 436 uppon my Lady 483 

Elysium, A Dreame of 43 

B. Virgin, A translation of Verses Epilogue At Court [Cutter of Cole- 

upon the, &c. 57 man- Street] 34 1 

Buclcingham, To the Duchesse of 52 Epilogue Spoken by Cutter 340 

Buckingham, upon his Marriage with Epilogue to Loves Riddle 148 

the Lord Fairfax his Daughter, To Epilogue to The Guardian 341 

the Duke of 462 Epitaph 39 

Epitaphium Vivi Auctoris 461 

Cambridge, An Answer to an In- Experimental Philosophy, A Proposi- 

vitation to 66 tion For the Advancement Of 143 
Carleton, An Elegie ...... Dudley 

Lord, &c. 40 Garden, The 420 

Charles, Ode V. In commendation Godfather, Master A. B., To his 

of the time wc live under the very much honoured 53 

Reign of our gracious K. 63 Greatness, Of 418 

Civil War, A Poem on the late, Sec. Guardian, The 161 


Claudian's Old Man of Verona llappie Birth of the Duke, Upon the 

447 48.? 
Gierke, An Elegie Master Horace. L. 3. Ode i. Odi pro- 
Richard, &c. 41 fanum vulgus, &c. 434 
Constantia and Philetus 7 Horace to Fuscus Aristius, A Para- 
Country Life, The 419 phrase, &c. 416 
Country Mouse, The, A Paraphrase, Herat. EjxKlon. Beatus ille qui pro- 
&c. 414 cul, &.C. 411 

Cromwell, A Discourse . 

Oliver 342 Inclusam Danaen turns ahenea, A 

Cutter of Coleman- Street 269 Paraphrase on an Ode in Horace's 

third Book, beginning thus 44 1 
danger of Procrastination, The 452 

dangers of an Honest man in much Lady whodesireilaSong,&c.Toa 489 

Company, The 443 Letter, The 22 

Digbie, To the .... Sir Kenelmc, Liberty, Ode. Upon 388 

&c. 69 Littleton, An Elegie on the Death 

of John, &c. 55 

Eccho, The 1 1 Love, On the Power of 485 



. Quod I 

noinine? &c. 


Martial. L. [■>.] Vis fieri Uber? 

&c. 387 
Martial. Lib. 1. Vota tui breviter. 

Mart. Lib. 1. Ep. 90 4S5 
Mart. Lih. j. Epigr. 59 454 
Martial. L. 10. Ep. 47. Vitam 
qiue fadunt bealio[r]e[n, &c. 460 
Martial Book 10. Epigram 96 461 
Miilris, Ode III. To bis 61 
My self, or 455 

Obscurity, Of 397 

Osbolstou, To the Master 

Lambert, &c. 30 

Poetical! Revenge. A 50 

Poeliy, Ode I. On the praise of 59 

Toveriy is to be preferred before 

discoDlenied Riches, Ode It. That 

a pleasant 60 
Prolwue to Cutter of Coleman-Street 

166; Added at Court 167 
Prologue to The Guardian itii 

Puiilan and the Pafust, The 150 
PfTsinus and Thisbe, The Tragicall 
Historic of 31 

Keader, To the 6 

Several Discourees by nay of Essays. 

in Verw and Piose 377 
shortness of Life and uncertainty of 

Riches, The 44S 
shortnesse of Mans Life, Ode VI. 

Upon the 65 
Song, The 11, 14. JS 


Virg. Geore. O fortunalus nimiu 

&c. A Translation, &c 409 
Vote, A 48 


A Tower of Brass, one would have 

said 4^1 
A vail ot thickned Air around them 

cast 398 
Ah, happy Isle, how art thou chang*d 

and curst 343 
And must these waters smile againe ? 

and play 55 
And, oh, What Mans condition can 

be worse 437 
And there (with no design beyond 

my wall) whole and intire to lye 410 
And what a noble plot was crost 

As far as up to wards He ven the 

Branches grow 431 
As well might Corn as Verse in 

Cities grow 406 
As when the Midland Sea is no 

where clear 766 
At the large foot of a fair hollow tree 


Beauty and strength together came 

Begin, be bold, and venture to be 

wise 454 
Blest be the man (and blest he is) 

whom [e'er] 419 

Come Love, why stayest thou? The 

night 35 
Come, Poetry, and with you bring 

along 489 
Curst be that Mrretch (Deaths Factor 

sure) who brought 63 
Curst be the Man (what do I wish? 

as though 351 


For the few Houres of Life allotted 

me 386 
Freedome with Virtue takes her seat 


Go Melib[oe]us, now 449 

God made not pleasures only for the 
Rich 397 

Great Charles : there stop you Trum- 
peters of Fame 46 

Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great 

and good 305 
Happy art Thou, whom God does 

bless 413 
Happy the Man, who his whole time 

doth bound 447 
Happy the Man whom bounteous 

Gods allow 41a 
Health, from the lover of the Country 

me 416 
Hence clouded lookes, hence briny 

teares 47 
Hence, ye Profane; I hate ye all 

Hie, O Viator, sub Lare parvulo 

Honest and Poor, faithful in word 

and thought 445 
How hard, alas, is that young Lover's 

fate 169 

I'dmire, Mecsenas, how it comes to 
pass 438 

I caU'd the buskin'd Muse Mel- 
pomene 6 

I Hate, and yet I Love thee ta[ol 



I Ix)vc (for that upon the wings of 

Fame 53 
I Sing two constant Lovers various 

fate 7 
I Trust (deare Soule) my absence 

cannot move is 
If ever I more Riches did desire 

If I should say, that in your face 

were seene 53 
It is a punishment to love 115 
It is a Truth so certain, and so clear 

It was decreed by sted/ast Destinie 

Leave off unfit complaints, and deere 

Lest the misconstring world should 

chance to say 48 
Liberty, Of 377 

Madde feet, yee have beene tray tours 

to your Master 71 
Many, when Youths of tender Age 

they see 5 
Marke that swift Arrow how it cuts 

the ayre 6^ 
Me- thinks a Vision bids me silence 

break 340 
Me who have liv'd so long among 

the ^i^t 461 
My childish Muse is in her Spring, 

and yet 30 

Nature we say decayes, because our 

Age 4 
Nichols, my better selfe, forbeare 66 
Nor by me ere shall you 459 

Oh happy, (if his Happiness he 

knows) 409 
Oh ! what hath caus'd my killing 

miseries? it 
Once thou rejoycedst, and rejoyce 

for ever 57 
Our Yesterdays To morrow now is 

gone 454 

Phoebus expuls*d by the approaching 
Night 4a 

Rise up thou moumfull Swaine 71 

Shee*8 dead, and like the houre that 

stole her hence 54 
Since, dearest Friend, 'tis your 

desire to see 460 
So two rude waves, by stormes to- 

f ether throwne 150 
Daphne sees, and seeing her 
admires 485 
Sometimes vrith sleep, somtimes with 

wine we strive 397 
Stay Gentlemen; what I have said, 
was all 167 

That I do you with humble Bowes 

no more 387 
The Author bid me tell you— 'faith, 

I have 148 
The Chartreux wants the warning of 

a Bell 365 
The infernall Sisters, did a Counsell 

call 40 
The Madness of your People, and 

the Rage 341 
The merry waves dance up and 

downe, and play 73 
The Muses still love their own 

Native place 405 
The Play is done, great Prince, which 

needs must fear 141 
This humble Roof, this nistique 

Court (said He) 408 
This latter Age, the Lees of Time, 

hath knowne 69 
This only grant me, that my means 

may lye 456 
Thou, neither great at Court nor in 

the War 450 
Time flye with greater speed away 

*Tis better to dance then sing 81 

Tis not a Pyramide of Marble stone 

To morrow you will Live, you 

always cry 454 
To whom shall I my Sonrowes show? 

Tyrian dye why doe you weare 61 

Underneath this Marble Stone 39 
Unhappv they to whom God has not 

reveal d 406 
Upon the slippery tops of humane 

State 399 



Was it for this, tha^ Romes best 

blood he spilt 431^' 
Well then; I now do plainly see 

Well then, Sir, you shall know how 

far extend 380 
Westminster-Hall a friend and I 

agreed 50 
What Rape does England from it 

self divide 467 
When, Lo, e*re the last words were. 

fiilly spoke 375 
Where Babylons High Walls erected 

were 31 
Whilst the rude North Charles his 

slow wrath doth call 483 
Who governs his own coarse with 

steddy hand 385 

Who tays the Times do Learning 

disallow? 161 
Why dost thou heap up Wealth, 

which thou must quit 450 
Why 6 doth gaudy Tagus ravish 

thee 60 
With thee for ever I in woods could 

rert 393 
Wonder not. Sir (you who instruct 

the Town) 455 
Would you be Free? Tis your chief 

wish, you say 387 

Your absence (Sir) though it be long, 

yet I 44 
Your picture mighty P. ingrav*d in 

gould 483 






Essays, plays and «o™jrALH18W 


3 6105 045 044 117 

Stanford, Caliiomia 

SEP;a iis 

SEP ii>